Part 31 (1/2)

My proud arms cradled his infant head, My prayers arose by his boyhood's bed; To better our fortunes, he traversed the main; G.o.d guard him, and bring him to me again.

The postman has pa.s.sed midst the beating rain, And my heart is bowed with its weight of pain; This dark, dark day, I am tortured with dread That Sandy, my boy, may be ill or dead.

But hark! there's a step! my heart be still!

A step at the gate, in the path, on the sill; Did the postman return? my letter forget?

Oh 'tis Sandy! Thank G.o.d, he loves me yet!

THE MISSIONARY'S STORY.

Hard were her hands, and brown; Coa.r.s.est of stuff her gown: Sod hut her home.

Pale was her care-worn face, Beauty and youth and grace Long since have flown.

Stern was her lot in life; She was a drunkard's wife; And forests drear Shut not temptation out; Strong drink was sold and bought; Poor pioneer!

Slave he to demon rum; Houses and lands all gone; Want came by stealth.

Yet her scant fare she shared With me, who worse have fared In homes of wealth.

Stranger was I to her Save as Christ's messenger; And for His sake She, all her little store Wis.h.i.+ng it were but more,-- Bade me to take.

Oh like the widow's mite, Given for love of right, May it be blest.

When her last hour has come, May angels bear her home, Ever to rest.

TRANSITION.

She is lying in state, this fair June day, While the bee from the rose its sweetness sips; Her heart thrills not at the lark's clear lay, Though a smile illumines her pallid lips.

What glorified form did the Angel of Death a.s.sume to her view, that it left the bright trace Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face?

Did angels with snow-white wings come down And hover about her dying bed?

Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown To place on their sainted comrade's head?

Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green, Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom?

Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?

Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air?

Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there?

Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour's breast?

On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?

All this we may humbly and truly believe, For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give The comforting promise, which all may receive: ”He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live.”

DOROTHY MOORE.

A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown; He lived in a mansion just out of the town, A mansion s.p.a.cious and grand; He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome, Had money invested abroad and at home, And thousands of acres of land.

A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray; And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play When she sets about trying to plan, She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold, And always left Archibald out of her fold, The harmless, and weak-minded man.