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The Other Side.
CLIMBING the mountain's shaggy crest,

I wondered much what sight would greet

My eager gaze whene'er my feet Upon the topmost height should rest.

The other side was all unknown;

But as I slowly toiled along,

Sweeter to me than any song My dream of visions to be shown.

At length the topmost height was gained;

The other side was full in view;

My dreams - not one of them was true, But better far had I attained.

For far and wide on either hand

There stretched a valley broad and fair,

With greenness flashing everywhere, A pleasant, smiling, home-like land.

Who knows, I thought, but so 'twill prove

Upon that mountain-top of death,

Where we shall draw diviner breath, And see the long-lost friends we love.

It may not be as we have dreamed,

Not half so awful, strange, and grand;

A quiet, peaceful, home-like land, Better than e'er in vision gleamed.

J. W. Chadwick.

The Good Old Grandmother.
O, SOFTLY waves the silver hair

From off that aged brow!
That crown of glory, worn so long,

A fitting crown is now.
Fold reverently the weary hands

That toiled so long and well;
And, while your tears of sorrow fall,

Let sweet thanksgivings swell.

That life-work, stretching o'er long years,

A varied web has been;
With silver strands by sorrow wrought,

And sunny gleams between.
These silver hairs stole slowly on,

Like flakes of falling snow,
That wrap the green earth lovingly

When autumn breezes blow.

Each silver hair, each wrinkle there,

Records some good deed done; Some flower she cast along the way,

Some spark from love's bright sun.

How bright she always made her home!

It seemed as if the floor
Was always flecked with spots of sun,

And barred with brightness o'er.

The very falling of her step

Made music as she went;
A loving song was on her lip,

The song of full content.

And now, in later years, her word

Has been a blessed thing
In many a home, where glad she saw

Her children's children spring.

Her widowed life has happy been

With brightness born of heaven; So pearl and gold in drapery fold

The sunset couch at even.

O, gently fold the weary hands

That toiled so long and well; The spirit rose to angel bands,

When off earth's mantle fell.

She's safe within her Father's house,

Where many mansions be;
O, pray that thus such rest may come,

Dear heart, to thee and me!


Lifted Over.

AS TENDER mothers, guiding baby steps,
When places come at which the tiny feet
Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms
Of love, and set them down beyond the harm,
So did our Father watch the precious boy,
Led o'er the storms by me, who stumbled oft
Myself, but strove to help my darling on:
He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw
Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail;
So reached from heaven and lifting the dear child,
Who smiled in leaving me, he put him down
Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade
Him wait for me! Shall I not then be glad,
And, thanking God, press on to overtake?

H. H.

Hope for the Sorrowing.

YE holy ministers of love,

Blest dwellers in the upper spheres, In vain we fix our gaze above,

For we are blinded by our tears. Oh! tell us to what land unknown The soul of him we love has flown?

He left us when his manly heart

With earnest hope was beating high:
Too soon it seemed for us to part;

Too soon, alas, for him to die!
We have the tenement of clay,
But aye the soul has passed away!

Away, into the unknown dark,

With fearless heart and steady hand,
He calmly launched his fragile bark,

To seek the spirit's fatherland.
Say, has he reached some distant shore,
To speak with us on earth no more?

Hark! for a voice of gentle tone

The answer to our cry hath given, Soft as Æolian harp-strings blown,

Responsive to the breath of even,“I have not sought a distant shore: Lo! I am with you, weep no more! “Aye! Love is stronger far than Death,

And wins the victory o'er the grave:
Dependent on no mortal breath,

Its mission is to guide and save.
Above the wrecks of Death and Time,
It triumphs, changeless and sublime.
“Still shall my love its vigils keep,

True as the needle to the pole;
For Death is not a dreamless sleep,

Nor is the grave man's final goal. The larger growth, the life divine,– All that I hoped or wished are mine.” Blest spirit, we will weep no more,

But lay our selfishness to rest: The Providence which we adore

Has ordered all things for the best. Life's battle fought, the victory won, To nobler toils pass on, pass on!

Lizzie Dotas

“Cone is Gone, and Wead is Bead."
“GONE is gone, and dead is dead I”
Words to hopeless sorrow wed, -
Words from deepest anguish wrung,
Which a lonely wanderer sung,
While her harp prolonged the strain,
Like a spirit's cry of pain
When all hope with life is filed :
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Mournful singer ! hearts unknown
Thrill responsive to that tone;
By a common weal and woe,
Kindred sorrows all must know.

Lips all tremulous with pain
Oft repeat that sad refrain,
When the fatal shaft is sped:
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”

Pain and death are everywhere,
In the earth and sea and air;
And the sunshine's golden glance,
And the heaven's serene expanse,
With a silence calm and high
Seem to mock that mournful cry,
Wrung from hearts by hope unfed :
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead.”
Oye sorrowing ones, arise ;
Wipe the tear-drops from your eyes ;

faces to the light;
Read Death's mystery aright.
Life unfolds from life within,
And with death does life begin.
Of the soul can ne'er be said,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead."
As the stars which, one by one,
Lit their torches at the sun,
And across ethereal space
Swept each to its destined place,
So the soul's Promethean fire,
Kindled never to expire,
On its course immortal sped,
Is not gone, and is not dead.
By a Power to thought unknown,
Love shall ever seek its own.
Sundered not by time or space,
With no distant dwelling-place,
Soul shall answer unto soul,
As the needle to the pole,
Leaving grief's lament unsaid,
“Gone is gone, and dead is dead."

Evermore Love's quickening breath Calls the living soul from death;

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