About men's eyes indifferently;

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let

You sleep: our tears are only wet;

What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in the old time

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the line
To watch the sun set from the sky;

"Dear love, you're looking tired," he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head;
Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm,
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now alone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and L

Tired out we are, my heart and I!
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely dare to look at even

A pretty child or God's blue Heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I!
In this abundant earth, no doubt,
Is little room for things worn out;
Disdain them, break them, throw them by,
And if before the day grows rough
We once were loved, used-well enough
I think we've fared, my heart and I!

COMING.

ANONYMOUS.

“At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning."

Mark xiii. 35.

It may be in the evening,

When the work of the day is done,
And you have time to sit in the twilight
And watch the sinking sun-

While the long bright day dies slowly

Over the sea,

And the hour grows quiet and holy

With thoughts of me;

While you hear the village children
Passing along the street,
Among those thronging footsteps

May come the sound of my feet:
Therefore, I tell you, Watch,

By the light of the evening star, When the room is growing dusky As the clouds afar;

Let the door be on the latch

In your home,

For it may be through the gleaming

I will come.

It may be when the midnight

Is heavy upon the land,

And the black waves lying dumbly

Along the sand;

When the moonless night draws closely,

And the lights are out in the house;

When the fires burn low and red,

And the watch is ticking loudly

Beside the bed;

Though you sleep, tired out, on your couch,

Still your heart must wake and watch

In the dark room,

For it may be that at midnight

I will come.

It may be at the cock-crow,

When the night is dying slowly

In the sky,

And the sea looks calm and holy,

Waiting for the dawn

Of the golden sun

Which draweth nigh;

When the mists are on the valleys shading

The river's chill,

And my morning star is fading, fading

Over the hill;