United in thy love, and may we meet,

When life's last scenes are o'er, around the throne."
Thus prayed he-thus lived he-years passed,
And o'er the sunshine of that happy home,

A cloud came from the pit; the fatal bolt
Fell from that cloud. The towering tree
Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke,
And laid its coronal of glory low.

A happy home was ruined; want and woe
Played with his children, and the joy of youth
Left their sweet faces no more to return.

His Mary's face grew pale and paler still,
Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul
Went out through those blue portals. Mary died,
And yet he wept not. At the demon's call
He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl,
And when they buried her from sight, he sank
In drunken stupor by her new-made grave!
His friend was gone-he never had another,
And the world shrank from him, all save one,
And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs,
And bade him drink, forget his God, and die!

He died!

Cain! Cain! where is thy brother now!
Lives he still-if dead, still where is he?
Where? In heaven? Go, read the sacred page:

"No drunkard ever shall inherit there."

Who sent him to the pit? Who dragged him down?
Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled
While yet the hellish work went on? Who grasped
His gold-his health-his life-his hope-his all?
Who saw his Mary fade and die? Who saw
His beggared children wandering in the streets?
Speak-coward-if thou hast a tongue,
Tell why with hellish art you slew A MAN.

"Where is thy brother?"

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Ah, man! A deeper mark is on your brow
Accursed was the name

Than that of Cain.

Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul
Was ripe for heaven; thrice accursed he
Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.-ALEXANDER.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave.

And no man knows that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth-

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain's crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking,

Still shuns that hallowed spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword,

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher

Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,-
The hillside for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!

Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-Peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still. God hath His mysteries of graee,

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

BRIDGE OF SIGHS.-HOOD.

Drowned, drowned.-Hamlet.

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,—
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.-
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers,

Oozing so clammily.