It is years we dare not think how many-since then, and the prayers of David the son of Jesse, are ended,' and the choir is scattered and gone. The girl with blue eyes that sang alto, and the girl with black eyes that sang air; the eyes of the one, were like a clear June Heaven at night, and those of the other, like the same Heaven at noon. They both became wives, and both mothers, and they both died. Who shall say they are not singing Corinth still, where Sabbaths never wane, and congregations never break up? There they sat, Sabbath after Sabbath, by the square column at the right of the 'leader,' and to our young eyes, they were passing beautiful, and to our young ears, their tones were the very 'soul of music.' That column bears still, their pencilled names as they wrote them in those days in life's June, 183-, ere dreams of change had o'ercome their spirits like a summer cloud.

Alas! that with the old Singers, most of the sweet old tunes have died upon the air; but they linger in memory, and they shall yet be sung again, in the sweet re-union of song that shall take place by and by, in a hall whose columns are beams of morning light, whose ceiling is pure pearl, whose floors are all gold, and where hair never turns silvery, and hearts

never grow old. Then she that sang alto, and she that sang air, will be in their places once more, for what could the choir do without them?

Tt aiting.

PATIENT reader, did you ever wait? Are you any way related to the patriarch of Uz, and did you wait, meekly, quietly, resignedly? Longfellow hit it once, 'palpably,' when he enjoined upon all his readers,

'Learn to labor and to wait.'

Laboring and waiting compose the great business of life. Any sinner can do the former, but as for the latter, it takes a saint.

Wait? We are forever waiting.

6

Don't you re

member when you were waiting to throw off the 'rifle-dress,' for pantaloons, and the red stubby shoes for regular boots, just like father's, or uncle's, or some body's? You are a lady?' Beg pardon. Well, ladies never get beyond thirty-five, and you can remember how you waited till you could wear your hair done up behind,' with a comb, and sport-awell, what politicians like to make a bustle. And

you

don't you remember how waited for a beau or a belle, or to be eighteen or twenty-one? Every body waits. School-children wait for 'the last day' and vacation; undergraduates wait for commencement and college honors; poets wait for fame, and like their funeral trains, if they have any, it is posthumous; agriculturists wait from seed-time till harvest; politicians wait from campaign to campaign; preachers wait for the moving of the waters;' watchers wait for morning; the weary wait for evening, and the old and friendless wait for dying.

Sad are they who have no body to keep them company. There is a waiting Angel, and her name is HOPE, for what is Hope but a happy waiting? Religion has made her an arch-angel, and christened her Faith. The former looks into the future of this world, and the latter looks into the future of that. Maybe you call this transcendental, Germanic; maybe you call it nonsense. Be it so; it is a nonsense that will pass under the guise of wisdom by and by, when the masquerade of life is ended, and things are what they seem.'

So, Hope and Faith together, are for ever singing a little song, whose burden is

Et will all be right in the Morning.

I.

When the bounding beat of the heart of love,
And the springing step, grow slow;

When the form of a cloud in the blue above,
Lies dark on the path below,

The song that he sings is lost in a sigh,

And he turns where a STAR is dawning,

And he thinks, as it gladdens his heart and his eye: 'It will all be right in the morning!'

II.

When 'the strong man armed,' in the middle-watch,

From life's dim deck is gazing,

And strives, through the wreck of the tempest, to catch
A gleam of the day-beam's blazing;

Amid the wild storm, there hard by the helm,
He heeds not the dark ocean yawning;

For this song in his soul not a sorrow can whelm:
'It will all be right in the morning!'

III.

When the battle is done, the harp unstrung,

Its music trembling—dying;

When his woes are unwept, and his deeds unsung,
And he longs in the grave to be lying,

Then a VOICE shall charm, as it charmed before
He had wept or waited the dawning:

"They do love there for aye-I'll be thine as of yoreIt will all be right in the morning!'

IV.

Thus all through the world, by ship and by shore;
Where the mother bends over

The cradle, whose tenant 'has gone on before;'
Where the eyes of the lover

Look aloft for the loved; whatever the word,

A welcome, a wail, or a warning,

THIS is every where cherished-this every where heard: 'It will all be right in the morning!'

Death itself is a great waiting; there is no more work nor device'-the laboring, which is the living, is subtracted, and we have that dread, dumb and dusty remainder,' they call death.

Some body, maybe, who wears a heart-a piece of extravagance, too, as the world goes-may analyze this compound of living, and find no love in it, and eschew the definition, and set me down as no philosopher. Laboring is loving, and loving is a good, strong, healthful action of the heart; something quick, but not too quick; something warm, but not feverish.

Work, and the heart beats; the harder you work, the faster it plays, and one is just in the condition to love, when he is just in the condition to labor. Some people are too lazy to love, and so they wait till they die, and keep waiting, Heaven knows how long!

8