What did we ask with all our love for him,

But just a breath of fuller life

To ease the laboring lungs? And God hath given him
The gift of life itself, -full, everlasting life!

What did we pray for? Rest even for one night,

That he might rise with sleep's most golden dews,
Refreshed to feel the morning in his soul;
And God hath given him his eternal rest!
We could not proffer freedom for one hour
From that dread weight of weariness he bore,
Struggling for years to shake death's shadow off;
And God hath made him free forevermore!

Sleeping and Waking

Sleep, tired one, sleep!

Gerald Massey.

Earth's wakefulness hath pain and sore unrest,
And joys and sorrows battling in the breast,
nd good that is but longing for the best.
Sleep, tired one, sleep!

Sleep, lovely one, sleep!

Earth's beauty is a summer sunset's glow,
Fading to darkness as the night shades grow;
Thy beauty was of climes we do not know.
Sleep, lovely one, sleep!

Sleep, loving one, sleep!

Warm hearts and tender cluster, true and kind;
Thy sorrowing ones they shall not fail to find;
Love well shall guard the love thou leav'st behind.
Sleep, loving one, sleep!

Sleep, beloved one, sleep!

Thy dear sweet memory in our hearts abides ;
More dear and sweet as time more swiftly glides,
Most dear, most sweet, for that to which it guides.
Sleep, beloved one, sleep!

Wake, deathless one, wake!

The Life thou lovedst loves thee still for aye;
It had no kinship with thy perishing clay,

But crowns thy forehead with eternal Day:
Thou waitest for thine own-lighting the way.

Wake, deathless one, wake.

F. E. Abbot (to E. C. Potter.)

Sleep.

He sees when their footsteps falter, when their hearts grow weak and

faint;

He marks when their strength is failing, and listens to each com

plaint;

He bids them rest for a season, for the path-way has grown too steep; And folded in fair green pastures, he giveth his loved ones sleep.

Like weary and worn-out children, that sigh for the daylight's close, He knows that they oft are longing for home and its sweet repose; So he calls them in from their labors ere the shadows around them

creep,

And silently watching o'er them, he giveth his loved ones sleep.

He giveth it, oh! so gently, as a mother will hush to rest
The babe that she softly pillows so tenderly on her breast;
Forgotten are now the trials and sorrows that made them weep,
For with many a soothing promise, he giveth his loved ones sleep.
He giveth it! Friends the dearest can never this boon bestow;
But he touches the drooping eyelids, and placid the features grow;
Their foes may gather about them, and storms may round them sweep,
But, guarding them safe from danger, he giveth his loved ones sleep.
All dread of the distant future, all fears that oppressed to-day,
Like mists that clear in the sunlight, have noiselessly passed away;
Nor call, nor clamor can rouse them from slumbers so pure and deep,
For only his voice can reach them, who giveth his loved ones sleep.

Weep not that their toils are over, weep not that their race is run;
God grant we may rest as calmly when our work, like theirs, is done!
Till then we would yield with gladness our treasures to him to keep,
And rejoice in the sweet assurance, he giveth his loved ones sleep.
Anonymous.

Our Home Maker.

Where the mountains slope to the westward,

And their purple chalices hold
The new made wine of the sunset
Crimson and amber and gold -

In this old, wide-opened doorway,
With the elm-boughs over head-
The house all garnished behind her,
And the plentiful table spread—

She has stood to welcome our coming,
Watching our upward climb,

In the sweet June weather that brought us,
Oh, many and many a time!

To-day, in the gentle splendor

Of the early summer noon-
Perfect in sunshine and fragrance
Although it is hardly June-

Again is the doorway opened,

And the house is garnished and sweet; But she silently waits for our coming,

And we enter with silent feet.

A little within she is waiting,

Not where she has met us before;
For over the pleasant threshold
She is only to cross once more.

The smile on her face is quiet,
And a lily is on her breast;
Her hands are folded together
And the word on her lips is "rest."

And yet it looks like a welcome,

For her work is compassed and done;
All things are seemly and ready,
And her summer is just begun.

It is we who may not cross over :
Only with song and prayer,

A little way into the glory,

We may reach as we leave her there.

But we cannot think of her idle;

She must be a home-maker still;
God giveth that work to the angels
Who fittest the task fulfil;

And somewhere, yet, in the hilltops
Of the country that hath no pain,
She will watch in her beautiful doorway,

To bid us a welcome again.

Tired Out.

A. D. T. Whitney.

He does well who does his best;

Is he weary? let him rest.

Brothers! I have done my best,

I am weary - let me rest.