AKE me no LOTS of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, by whole : fe lonz,
And love no other till thy days shall end-
Nay, it were rash and wrong

If thou canst love another, be it so:

I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go:-
Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene
In clearer light than gids these earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen,

Which sow this life with thorns.

Thon wouldst not feel my shadowy caress,
If, after death, my soul should linger here:
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully
That thon wert wasting all thy life in woe

For my poor sake: what love thos hast for me,
Bestow it ere I go!

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead

The praises which remorsefui mourners give To women's graves-s tardy recompense

Bat speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head

To shut away the sunshine and the dew; Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses ware, And rain-drops fiter through.

Thon wilt meet many fairer and more gay

Than 1; bat, trust me, thou caust never find One who will love and serve thee night and day With a more single mind.

Forget me when I die! The violets

Above my rest will blossom just as blue, Nor miss thy tears; e'en nature's self forgets; But while I live, be true!

OMETIME. when all life's lessons

have been learned,

And son and stars for everinore have set,

The things which our weak
judgments here have spurned,
The things o'er which we
grieved with lashes wet,
Will flash before us out of
life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue;
And we shall see how all God's plans were right,
And how what seemed reproof was love most true.
And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,
God's plans go on as best for you and me;
How, when we called, He heeded not our cry,
Because His wisdom to the end could see.
And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving baby hood,
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now
Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good.
And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine,
We find the wormwood, and reoel and shrink,

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this portion for our lips to drink. And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face, Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath
Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend,
And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death
Conceals the fairest boon His love can send.
If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within, and all God's workings see,
We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
And for each mystery could find a key!

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!
God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold;
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land
Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest,
When we shall clearly know and understand,
I think that we will say, "God knew the best!"

W

We hold ourselves too far from all our kind;
Too often we are dead to sigh and moan;
Too often to the weak and helpless blind;
Too often, where distress and want abide,
We turn and pass upon the other side.

The other side is trodden smooth, and worn
By footsteps passing idly all the day.
Where lie the bruised ones that faint and mourn,
Is seldom more than an untrodden way;
Our selfish hearts are for our feet the guide,
They lead us by upon the other side.

It should be ours the oil and wine to pour

It

Into the bleeding wounds of stricken ones;

To take the smitten, and the sick and sore,

And bear them where a stream of blessing runs; Instead, we look about-the way is wide, And so we pass upon the other side.

Eh, friends and brothers, gliding down the years,
Humanity is calling each and all

In tender accents, born of grief and tears!
I pray you, listen to the thrilling call;
You cannot, in your cold and selfish pride,
Pass guiltlessly by on the other side.

480

YNDER the haystack, little Boy Blue

Sleeps with his head on his arm,
While voices of men and voices of maids
Are calling him over the farm.

Sheep in the meadows are running wild,
Where a poisonous herbage grows,
Leaving white tufts of downy fleece
On the thorns of the sweet, wild rose.

Out in the fields where the silken corn
Its plumed head nods and bows,
Where the golden pumpkins, ripen below,
Trample the white-faced cows.

But no lond blast on the shining horn
Calls back the straying sheep,

And the cows may wander in hay or corn,
While their keeper lies asleep.

His roguish eyes are tightly shut,
His dimples are all at rest;

The chubby hand tucked under his head,
By one rosy cheek is pressed.

Waken him! No! Let down the bars
And gather the truant sheep,
Open the barn-yard and drive in the cows,
But let the little boy sleep.

For year after year we can shear the fleece,
And corn can always be sown;

But the sleep that visits little Boy Blue Will not come when the years have flown.