And behold, as I sat in my sorrow,
A quick ray shot from the east,
Another and then another,

And I knew that the night had ceased.
And the dark clouds rolled away to the west
As the great sun rose from his rest.

And now, as the fair dawn broadened,
Strong and joyous and bright,
My whole soul swept to meet it,
Rapt with a deep delight;

And a new voice rang down the radiant skies:
"Rejoice; I have heard thee. Arise."

Good Words.

THE PRINCE OF PEACE.

DEATH sent his messengers before.
"Our master comes apace," they cried;
"Ere night he will be at the door

To claim thy darling from thy side."
I drove them forth with curses fell;

I drove them forth with jeer and scoff;
Not all the powers of heaven or hell
Combined should bear my darling off.

I armed me madly for the fight;

My gates I bolted, barred, and locked; At sunset came a sable knight,

Dismounted at my doors, and knocked. I answered not; he knocked again;

I braved him sole, I braved his band;
He knocked once more-in vain, in vain;
My barriers crumbled 'neath his hand.

I rushed into the breach; I stood
Dazed with the flood of ebbing light;
"A victory over senseless wood

Adds scanty glory to thy might!
A stronger champion guards these walls-
A human love, a living heart;
And while each earthly bulwark falls,
It stays thee, awful as thou art!"

My sabre shivered on his mail,

My lance dropped headless at his feet;
I saw my darling's cheek grow pale,
I saw her turn, my foe to meet.
He passed, my lips alone could move;
Mad words of passion forth I hurled:
"They lied who said that God was love,
Who lets a tyrant rule the world."

He gathered her to his embrace,
While yet I raved in my despair;
He raised his visor from his face,

I looked, and saw an angel there.
Such conquering love, such mercy rare,
Such heavenly pity in his eyes,
As surely Love Divine might wear
When He assumed our mortal guise.

He bent above her dear, dumb lips

Mine own, whom I had loved too wellAnd, struggling from life's last eclipse, They smiled in peace ineffable.

Awe-struck I watched; he raised his head, And then in tones like summer's breath, "Am I a thing so vile," he said,

"I, whom ye men call shuddering Death?”

And sword and targe aside I flung,

Forgotten wrath, and loss, and pride; To his departing feet I clung,

"And me too, take me too," I cried; "Without her all is blank and black, With her and thee so fair-me too;" The solemn voice came ringing back, "Not yet, for thee is work to do."

The sunset sank from rose to gray;
His accents died away with it,
And from my soul, as from the day,
The glow and glory seemed to fit;
And 'mid my stronghold's shattered strength
I knelt alone, yet not alone;

Death's angel left me hope at length

Through tasks fulfilled to reach my own.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.

IF I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair; And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress, Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night,

My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,

Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;

The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften, in the old familiar way;

For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay!
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night,

Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow-
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

ARABELLA E. SMITH.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

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 dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er;

For the "Sons 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 when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the springtime

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

Put forth 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 rocky 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 drums,
Follow the funeral car;

They show the banners taken,
They tell his victories won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute-gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

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

This was the bravest 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.

To lie in state while angels wait,

The stars for tapers tall;

And the great rock-pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in his grave,

In that deep grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again (most wondrous thought !) Before the judgment-day,

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

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

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these anxious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER

REST AT EVENTIDE.

"The night cometh, when no man can work.”

FOLD ye the ice-cold hands

Calm on the pulseless breast;

The toil of the summer day is o'er,
Now cometh the evening rest;

And the folded hands have nobly wrought
Through noontide's din and strife,

And the dauntless heart hath bravely fought
In the ceaseless war of life.

Smooth ye the time-thinned hair
Still on the marble brow;

No earthly cloud doth linger there
To mar its beauty now.

But brow and lip and darkened eye
Bear a shade of deep repose,

As twilight shadows softly lie

On the wide-spread winter snows.

No voice of discord wakes
The silence still and deep,

And the far-off sounds of worldly strife
Cannot break the dreamless sleep.
Oh, welcome rest to a heart long tossed
On the tide of hopes and fears,-

To the feet that have wandered far and wide
O'er the weary waste of years.

From the gorgeous glare of day,
Welcome the gentle night,
Fading the tranquil lines away,
Solemn and calm and bright.