And as in waves of beauty the swift years come and go, Hearing, from that sweet country where blighting never came, Love chime the hours immortal, in earth and heaven the same. LUCY LARCOM. FOR the peace which floweth as a river, Making life's desert places bloom and smile! A little while for patient vigil-keeping, To face the stern, to battle with the strong; A little while to wear the weeds of sadness, To pace with weary steps through noisy ways; A little while midst shadow and illusion To strive by faith love's mysteries to spell: A little while the earthen pitcher taking To wayside brooks from far-off fountains fed; Beside the fullness of the fountain-head. A little while to keep the oil from failing, A little while faith's flickering lamp to trim, WHAT THEN? And he who is himself the Gift and Giver- JANE CREWDSON. 431 What Then? HAT then? Why, then another pilgrim song; WHAT And then a hush of rest, divinely granted; And then a thirsty stage (ah me, so long!) And then a brook, just where it most is wanted. What then? The pitching of the evening tent; And then, perchance, a pillow rough and thorny; And then some sweet and tender message, sent To cheer the faint one for to-morrow's journey. What then? The wailing of the midnight wind, Close by my pillow, ready for my waking. What then? I am not careful to inquire; I know there will be tears, and fears, and sorrow; What then? For all my sins, his pardoning grace; And Christ's own hand to lead me in my blindness. What then? A shadowy valley, lone and dim; JANE CREWDSON. THE The Lord will come. 'HE Lord will come! the earth shall quake, The hills their fixed seat forsake; And, withering from the vault of night, The stars withdraw their feeble light. The Lord will come! but not the same A silent lamb to slaughter led, The bruised, the suffering, and the dead. The Lord will come! a dreadful form, Can this be he who wont to stray, Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain ! Qui Mariam absolvisti, Et latronem exaudisti, Mihi quoque spem dedisti. Preces meæ non sunt dignæ; Inter oves locum præsta, Confutatis maledictis, Oro supplex et acclinis, Lacrymosa dies illa! Huic ergo parce, Deus! THOMAS DE CELANO. Dies Iræ. DAY of wrath! That day of mourning Sees our earth to ashes turning ; Such the seer's and sibyl's warning. Ah! the dread each bosom rending, |