A SERENADE

LOOK out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;
Then, lady, up, look out, and be
A sister to the night!

Sleep not thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast:
Sleep not! from her soft sleep should fly
Who robs all hearts of rest.
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkuess gay

How blest to age the impulse given,

The hope time ne'er destroys,

For many generations past,

Here is our family tree;

My mother's hands this Bible clasped, She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear; Who round the hearth-stone used to close

After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill!

heaven

When you and I were boys!

NEAR THE LAKE

NEAR the lake where drooped the willow,
Long time ago!

Where the rock threw back the billow,
Brighter than snow,

Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished
By high and low;

But with autumn's leaf she perished,
Long time ago!

Rock and tree and flowing water,
Long time ago!

Bee and bird and blossom taught her
Love's spell to know.

While to my fond words she listened,
Murmuring low,

Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened,
Long time ago!

Mingled were our hearts forever,
Long time ago!

Can I now forget her?- Never!
No-lost one - no!

To her grave these tears are given, Ever to flow:

She's the star I missed from heaven, Long time ago!

Here are they living still.

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look

Who leaned God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!
What vivid memories comie !
Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

Where all were false I found thee true,
My counsellor and guide.

The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy:

In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

WHERE HUDSON'S WAVE

WHERE Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Cronest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star!
And there, amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,
My fair and gentle Ida dwells,
A nymph of mountain-birth.

The snow-flake that the cliff receives,

The diamonds of the showers, Spring's tender blossoms, buds, aud leaves,

The sisterhood of flowers,

Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze, Her purity define;

Yet Ida's dearer far than these

To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills. The shades
Of night are on my brow:
Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades,
My soul is with you now!

I bless the star-crowned highlands where
My Ida's footsteps roam:
O for a falcon's wing to bear
Me onward to my home!

JEANNIE MARSH

JEANNIE MARSII of Cherry Valley,
At whose call the muses rally;

Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
She minds me of her native scenes,
Where she was born among the cherries;
Of peaches, plums, and nectarines,
Pears, apricots, and ripe strawberries.
Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley,
In whose name the muses rally;

Of all the nine none so divine
As Jeannie Marsh of Cherry Valley.
A sylvan nymph of queenly grace,

A goddess she in form and feature;
The sweet expression of the place,
A dimple in the smile of nature.

MEMORIES

ONCE more, once more, my Mary dear,
I sit by that lone stream,
Where first within thy timid ear

I breathed love's burning dream.
The birds we loved still tell their tale
Of music, on each spray,
And still the wild-rose decks the vale
But thou art far away.

In vain thy vanished form I seek,
By wood and stream and dell,
And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
Where tears of rapture fell;

-

And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
Dear thoughts my soul employ,
For in the memories of past hours
There is a mournful joy.

Upon the air thy gentle words

Around me seemed to thrill,

Like sounds upon the wind-harp's chords
When all the winds are still,

Or like the low and soul-like swell
Of that wild spirit-tone,

Which haunts the hollow of the bell
When its sad chime is done.

CLIME of the brave! the high heart's home,

Laved by the wild and stormy sea! Thy children, in this far-off land,

Devote to-day their hearts to thee; Our thoughts, despite of space and time, To-day are in our native clime,

Where passed our sinless years, and where Our infant heads first bowed in prayer.

Stern land we love thy woods and rocks, Thy rushing streams, thy winter glooms, And Memory, like a pilgrim gray,

Kneels at thy temples and thy tombs:

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;

No more from that cottage again will I

roam;

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

Home Home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE

Compose thy weary limbs to rest;
For they alone are blest
With balmy sleep
Whom angels keep;

Nor, though by care opprest,

Or anxious sorrow,

Or thought in many a coil perplexed
For coming morrow,
Lay not thy head
On prayerless bed.

For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close,

That earthly cares and woes
To thee may e'er return?
Arouse, my soul !
Slumber control,
And let thy lamp burn brightly;
So shall thine eyes discern
Things pure and sightly;
Taught by the Spirit, learn

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care,
That calls for holy prayer?

Has thy day been so bright
That in its flight

There is no trace of sorrow?
And thou art sure to-morrow

Will be like this, and more Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store And still make plans for more?

Thou fool! this very night
Thy soul may wing its flight.

Hast thou no being than myself more dear,

That ploughs the occan deep,
And when storms sweep

The wintry, lowering sky,
For whom thou wak'st and weepest?
Oh, when thy pangs are deepest,
Seck then the covenant ark of prayer;
For He that slumbereth not is there-
His ear is open to thy cry.

Oh, then, on prayerless bed
Lay not thy thoughtless head.

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slum

ber,

Till in communion blest
With the elect ye rest

Those souls of countless number;
And with them raise
The note of praise,

Reaching from earth to heaven -
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven;
So lay thy happy head,
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.

MARGARET MERCER

FORGIVENESS OF SINS A JOY UNKNOWN TO ANGELS

TREMBLING before thine awful throne,
O Lord! in dust my sins I own:
Justice and Mercy for my life
Contend! Oh, smile, and heal the strife!

The Saviour smiles! Upon my soul
New tides of hope tumultuous roll:
His voice proclaims my pardon found,
Seraphic transport wings the sound!