LINES.

That calmed the tumult of its troubled breast,
With the kind soothings of a tone, like that
Which bade the waves be still on Gallilee,—
And ever was around its joyous hours
In gentle melodies of breathing love?
Forget such tenderness?

Oh! mother, pray.

169

And thou dost pray. The bosom that has heaved
To the slight pressure of thy first-born's cheek,
Has felt the yearnings of a mother's love
That would not be forbidden, and its prayer,
Borne by the spirits ministering around
Thy waking and the infant's rest, has gone
To the recording angel. And the God
Who keepeth covenant, remembereth
That gentle falling of baptismal dews,
And stoopeth now with broad o'er-shadowing
Of the celestial wings, to shelter it.

Mother, have faith. So the fair flower that springs
To its unfolding beauty, 'neath thine eye,
Shall grow, with the soft sunlight of thy smiles,
And with the dew-drops of thine anxious tears,
To scatter perfume round thee-and shall pass,
After life's Autumn, to the 'living green'
Of the Sweet Fields,' and the unfading Spring.

SPIRIT VOICES.

BY GEORGE W. LAMB.

IN the silent greenwood glade,
In the dim old forest's shade,
By the rushing river,-

There are sweet low voices singing,
Music on the soft breeze flinging,

And they haunt me ever.

In the star-crowned, quiet night, Ringing from the moonlit height, Whispering from the vale, From the swinging, leafy bough, And the dewy flowers below,

Murmuring still their tale.

SPIRIT VOICES.

"Tis of days long passed away,
"Tis of forms now cold in clay
These sweet voices tell.

At the memories they bring,
Tears and smiles, together, spring
From the heart's deep swell.

Old friends again about me stand,
And once more the clasping hand
And the kindling eye,

Better far than words can do

Tell that hearts are warm and true
As in days gone by.

And, as these sweet visions throng,
Joyous laughs with many a song
On the charmed air swell,

And strike upon the dreaming brain
Till the old time seems back again-
The old time loved so well.

Ever thus in greenwood glade

And in the deep forest shade

And by the rushing river,

There are sweet, low voices singing,
Music to the soft breeze flinging,

And they haunt me ever.

171

GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS.

BY GEORGE F. MASOUN.

No proud cathedral bell the prayer-call bearing,
Swung solemnly within its lofty tower,

All sights and sounds, and their true hearts unerring
Proclaimed the hour.

The sunset-wane of day's resplendent glory,
Wrote on the clouds in roseate letters there,
Like some fine limner famed in ancient story,

"To prayer! To prayer!"

The breeze that waved the meek, dew-dripping flowers,

And breathed inspiring fragrance on the air,

A murmur sent through all their blossomy bowers,

"To prayer! To prayer!"

GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS. 173

Not mid the pomp of serried arch and column
They led their meek and reverent array ;
Where all was wild, yet Sabbath-like and solemn,
They turned to pray.

Wild, and yet Sabbath-like! Huge rocky masses Were piled that yawning cavern-temple round, Where the fierce earthquake in its rifting passes A home had found!

The Patriarch came, his long white locks revealing 'Time's sway of joy and sorrow, hope and fear, And the wee infant tottered from his dwelling

The mother came.

Of scarce a year.

Her woman's heart will falter

As priestly hands her baptized infant lift,

And still the white-robed maidens at the altar

Blush at the gift!

ing

Stay!-A swift banner-plaid went flash

High o'er the rocky verge with sudden gleam,

And sullenly a heavy stone fell plashing

Upon the stream!