Room for Thy weaklings Thou dost make
Among Thy men of might;

Those fadeless palms Thy martyrs take
And wear that raiment white.

For each Thou hast a portion meet;

On all doth wait Thy love;

Thy brethren dear make yet more sweet

The Father's house above.

Dear Lord! hast thou my white robe wrought?
Wilt thou my place prepare?

Hast thou for me a tender thought,

For me a mansion fair?

Yes, in the Father's house divine
Find room, dear Lord, for me,
And grant this longing soul of mine
An endless home with Thee.

OVER THE RIVER THEY BECKON ME.

NANCY W. PRIEST.

VER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who've crossed to the further side,

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue, He crossed in the twilight grey and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view;

We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of the city we could not see,
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet:
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark,
We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;
We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts
They cross the stream and are gone for aye.
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day,
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere I know on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

THEY ARE GATHERING HOMEWARD, ONE BY ONE.

By the daughter of an English Baptist Missionary in Calcutta.

THEY

HEY are gathering homeward from every land,
One by one.

As their weary feet touch the shining strand

One by one,

Their brows are enclosed in a golden crown,

Their travel-stained garments are all laid down,
And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead,
Where the Lamb loveth His chosen to lead,

One by one.

Before the rest they pass through the strife
One by one,

Through the waters of death they enter life
One by one.

To some are the floods of the river still

As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill,

To others the waves run fiercely and wild,

Yet all reach the home of the undefiled
One by one.

We too shall come to the river side

One by one,

We are nearer its waters each eventide.

One by one

We can hear the noise and dash of the stream
Now and again through our life's deep dream;
Sometimes the floods all the banks o'erflow,
Sometimes in ripples the small waves go,
One by one.

OPEN YE GATES, FOR THE BATTLE HATH

ENDED.

WILLIAM PALIN.

O

PEN! ye Gates, for the battle hath ended,
The warfare is over, the victory won:

Mighty the foe who his kingdom defended,

But mightier things by our Captain are done.

Sound! sound your harps! in your mansions of glory,
Ye Angels, who heralded peace at His birth;
Now welcome Him back, while man takes up the story,
And echoes the tidings of peace upon earth.

Olivet! henceforth for evermore holy,

As Bethlehem, Tabor, thy name we will call; He trod thee despised, rejected and lowly,

Behold Him now triumphing, LORD over all.

Higher, yet higher, behoid Him ascending;
See! Messengers coming apparelled in white;
See Him now vanish, the marvel is ending,
The cloud is receiving Him out of our sight!
Open, ye gates! yet again shall the thrilling
Command be repeated, and all men shall hear:
Saints, as their heritage Heaven is filling,

The curséd, as Hell first re-echoes their fear.

GO LAY THEIR LITTLE HEADS ON THAT HEART.

Y

George W. BETHUNE. (Suggested by the bas-relief of Thorwaldsen.)

ES! bear them to their rest;

The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, The prattler, fallen asleep e'en in his play;

Clasp them to thy soft breast,

O Night;

Bless them in dreams with a deep-hushed delight.

Yet must they wake again,

Wake soon to all the bitterness of life,
The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife,
Ay, to the conscience pain:

O Night,

Canst thou not take with them a longer flight?