Though tears may dim my hours of joy,
And bid my pleasures flee,

THOU reign'st where grief cannot annoy;
I will be glad in THEE.

And e'en when midnight's solemn gloom,
Above, around, is spread,
Sweet dreams of everlasting bloom
Are hovering o'er my head.

I dream of that fair land, O Lord,
Where all thy saints shall be;
I wake to lean upon thy word,
And still delight in THEE.

To the Memory of a Brother.-ANONYMOUS.

BEHOLD the glorious morn! and where art thou,
To feel its first rich breath on thy sweet brow,
Child of our hope and love?

And stand, with the spring flowers about thee waking,
And catch the early music that is breaking
From valley and fresh grove?

Were these to thee a weariness-the birds,
And the bright waters, and the earnest words
Of strong affection shed-

A mother's love, whose holy influence fell,
In its deep truth and its unchanging spell,
Like light, upon thy head?

"Young brother!" had the sound no joy for thee,
That in the dust this hour thy form should be,
And mute thy blessed voice?

O, there be yearnings for thee, gentlest one,

Gone with thy grace and thy sweet laughter's tone.

Meet were thy footsteps for the world of flowers,
And thy lost beauty for the coming hours

Of the crowned summer's reign;
And thou within the silent grave art laid,
And melody of bird and breeze is made
Henceforth to thee in vain.

And there are dancing o'er the joyous earth
Light hearted children in their fearless mirth;
And they remember not

The clasping of thy gentle hand, thou child,
The spirit beautiful and undefiled,

Now parted from their lot.

But I will speak of thee at eventide,

When, in their watchfulness, the pure stars glide
Above thy narrow bed,

And when, alas! shall come the morning's gleam
Bringing all beauty unto leaf and stream,
Yet reaching not the dead.

I will remember, and the dream shall be
Forever more a welcome thing to me,
Child of my bosom's love;

And I will deem thou'rt standing even now,
With the hair parted on thy sinless brow,
In a bright world above.

A Home everywhere.-S. GRAHAM.

HEAVE, mighty ocean, heave,

And blow, thou boisterous wind;
Onward we swiftly glide, and leave
Our home and friends behind

Away, away we steer,

Upon the ocean's breast;

And dim the distant heights appear,

Like clouds along the west.

There is a loneliness

Upon the mighty deep;

And hurried thoughts upon us press,
As onwardly we sweep.

Our home-O, heavens-that word!
A name without a thing!
We are e'en as a lonely bird,
Whose home is on the wing.

My wife and little one

Are with me as I go;

And they are all, beneath the sun,
I have of weal or wo.

With them, upon the sea

Or land, where'er I roam,
My all on earth is still with me,
And I am still at home.

Heave, mighty ocean, heave,

And blew, thou boisterous wind: Where'er we go, we cannot leave Our home and friends behind.

Then come, my lovely bride,
And come, my child of wo;

Since we have nought on earth beside,
What matters where we go?

We heed not earthly powers,

We heed not wind nor weather;

For, come what will, this joy is ours-
We share it still together.

And if the storms are wild,

And we perish in the sea,

We'll clasp each other and our child:
One grave shall hold the three.

And neither shall remain

To meet, and bear alone,

The cares, the injuries, the pain,
That we, my love, have known.

And there's a sweeter joy,
Wherever we may be:

Danger nor death can e'er destroy
Our trust, O God, in thee.

Then wherefore should we grieve?

Or what have we to fear?

Though home, and friends, and life, we leave, Our God is ever near.

If He who made all things,

And rules them, is our own,
Then every grief and trial brings
Us nearer to his throne.

Then come, my gentle bride,
And come, my child of love;

What if we've nought on earth beside?
Our portion is above.

Sweep, mighty ocean, sweep;
Ye winds, blow foul or fair;
Our God is with us on the deep,
Our home is every where.

The Time to weep.-ANONYMOUS.

THERE is a time to laugh,

When Joy may raise his billows like the deep,

And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;But, O, when is the season not to weep?

Is it when vernal suns

Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf?

Or when the hoar frost nips the fading ones, That frailer beings may refrain from grief?

Is it when health and bloom

Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth?
Or when disease is training for the tomb
The heart which cherishes its bitter truth?

Look not upon the brow,

That shows no furrow from the plough of years;
There is a bend of peace upon it now-
But, O, futurity is full of tears!

The prattling child at play

May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile;
But could its vision reach beyond to-day,
And read its sorrows, think you it would smile?

Destruction has its home,

And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot;
Disease and all his brothers do not roam;
But where, O Wretchedness, where art thou not?

Thou hast thy dark abode

In the lone desert-in the prison's cell;

And in the gayest scene, where ever flowed The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell.

Thou art where friends are torn

And held asunder by reluctant space;

And meeting friends-O, do they never mourn When Memory paints thine image on the face?

Thy inmates of the breast

All other passions-are but weak and brief;

Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest, But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief!

Then let the trifler laugh,

And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep,

And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff; It is far better for the wise to weep.

The Autumn Evening.—PEABODY.

BEHOLD the western evening light!
It melts in deepening gloom;
So calmly Christians sink away,
Descending to the tomb.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf

Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills

The crimson light is shed!

"Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.