WAITING THE CHANGE.

Though some, whose presence once
Sweet comfort round me shed,
Here in the body walk no more
The way that I must tread,

Not they, but what they wore
Went to the house of fear;
They were the incorruptible,
They left corruption here.

The veil of flesh that hid
Is softly drawn aside;

More clearly I behold them now

Than those who never died.

Who died

what means that word

Of men so much abhorred?

Caught up in clouds of heaven to be

Forever with the Lord!

To give this body, racked
With mortal ills and cares,

For one as glorious and as fair,
As our Redeemer wears;

To leave our shame and sin,
Our hunger and disgrace;
To come unto ourselves, to turn
And find our Father's face;

To run, to leap, to walk,

To quit our beds of pain, And live where the inhabitants Are never sick again;

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To sit no longer dumb,

Nor halt, nor blind; to rise

To praise the Healer with our tongue,
And see Him with our eyes;

To leave cold winter snows,

And burning summer heats,

And walk in soft, white, tender light,
About the golden streets.

Thank God! for all my loved,
That out of pain and care,

Have safely reached the heavenly heights,

And stay to meet me there!

Not these I mourn; I know
Their joy by faith sublime
But for myself, that still below
Must wait my appointed time.

THOU AND I.

STRANGE, strange for thee and me
Sadly afar ;

Thou safe beyond, above,

I 'neath the star ;

Thou where flowers deathless Spring,

I where they fade;

Thou in God's paradise,

I 'mid time's shade!

SPRING FLOWERS.1

O SWEET and charitable friend,
Your gift of fragrant bloom

Has brought the spring-time and the woods,
To cheer my lonesome room.

It rests my weary, aching eyes,
And soothes my heart and brain;
To see the tender green of the leaves,
And the blossoms wet with rain.

I know not which I love the most,
Nor which the comeliest shows,

The timid, bashful violet,

Or the royal-hearted rose :

The pansy in her purple dress,
The pink with cheek of red,
Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs,
Like a bashful maid, her head.

For I love and prize you one and all,
From the least low bloom of spring
To the lily fair, whose clothes outshine
The raiment of a king.

And when my soul considers these,
The sweet, the grand, the gay,

I marvel how we shall be clothed
With fairer robes than they ;

1 The last poem written by Phoebe Cary.

SPRING FLOWERS.

And almost long to sleep, and rise,
And gain that fadeless shore,
And put immortal splendor on,
And live, to. die no more.

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