MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

THIS book is all that's left me now,
Tears will unbidden start,
With faltering lip and throbbing brow
press it to my heart.

For many generations past
Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped,
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear ;

Who round the hearthstone used to close,

After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said

In tones my heart would thrill! Though they are with the silent dead, Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who loved God's word to hear!
Her angel face, I see it yet!

What thronging memories come!
Again that little group is met

Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false, I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

For Charlie's sake I will arise;

I will anoint me where he lies,
And change my raiment, and go in
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin
Without, and seat me at his board,
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.
For wherefore should I fast and weep,
And sullen moods of mourning keep?
I cannot bring him back, nor he,
For any calling, come to me.
The bond the angel Death did sign,
God sealed

for Charlie's sake, and mine.
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day; We only know that their barks no more

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.

I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The angel of death shall carry me.

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

Thou art gone to the grave, and, its mansion forsaking,

Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,

THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN.
THERE all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face,
By beatific virtue of the place.
There shall the brother with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parents talk;
But all of God: they still shall have to say,
But make him all in all their theme that day:
That happy day that never shall see night!
Where he will be all beauty to the sight;
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;
A music in the ears will ever last;
Unto the scent, a spicery or balm ;
And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm.
He will all glory, all perfection, be,
God in the Union and the Trinity!
That holy, great, and glorious mystery
Will there revealed be in majesty,
By light and comfort of spiritual grace;
The vision of our Saviour face to face,
In his humanity! to hear him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach,
Through his inherent righteousness in death,
The safety of our souls and forfeit breath!
What fulness of beatitude is here!

What love with mercy mixéd doth appear!
To style us friends, who were by nature foes!
Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those
Had lost ourselves; and prodigally spent
Our native portions and possessed rent!
Yet have all debts forgiven us; an advance
By imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternal kingdom, where we sit
Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it.

BEN JONSON.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. I WOULD not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's joys, full enough for its cheer.

seraphim's song.