Canst thou not bear them far

E'en now, all innocent, before they know
The taint of sin, its consequence of woe,
The world's distracting jar,
O Night,

To some ethereal, holier, happier height?

Canst thou not bear them up,

Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim
And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him
Who drank for us the cup,

O Night,

The cup of wrath, for hearts in faith contrite?

To Him, for them who slept

A babe all lowly on his mother's knee,

And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary,

In all our sorrows wept,

O Night,

That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering light?

Go, lay their little heads

Close to that human heart, with love divine
Deep-beating, while His arms immortal twine
Around them, as He sheds,

O Night,

On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless might.

Let them immortal wake

Among the deathless flowers of Paradise;
Where angel songs of welcome with surprise
This their last sleep may break,

O Night,

And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite.

There can come no sorrow;

The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears,
For, ever young, through Heaven's eternal years,
In one unfading morrow,

O Night,

Nor sin, nor age, nor pain, their cherub beauty blight.

Would we could sleep as they,

So stainless-and so calm-at rest with Thee-
And only wake in immortality!

Bear us with them away,

O Night,

To that ethereal, holier, happier height!

I WAIT TILL THE HINGES TURN FOR ME.

BES

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

ESIDE a massive gateway built up in years gone by,

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;

I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant

more,

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day

is o'er.

Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a wearied one with a pale and furrowed

brow;

His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his

power.

I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day,

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amidst the young and
fair.

Oh glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

Oh crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze! Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings on,

And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate, In the soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go

out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the green sward

strows

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region: so enter, side by side, The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of

pride.

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars grey,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the

way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart, Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart; And in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

WHENCE CAME THAT MULTITUDE?

MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

W1

HENCE came that multitude? Ah! they have marched through paths of flame,

Where martyr-fires have silenced tongues that called on Jesus' name—

From the thickest of the battle, from the conflict sore

and long,

Where the trembling heart grew feeble, where the foes were fierce and strong:

From the scorching sands of desert-lands; from the ever-frozen isles

Yes, they have come from tears and sighs, to the brighter land of smiles.

Whence came the multitude? They came from homes that Death had riven;

From dreary, vacant, joyless hearths, from which all light was driven;

They are mothers, whose fond gentle hearts were bitterly bereaved;

They are fathers, husbands, left alone, with spirits sorely grieved:

They are crushed, forsaken, mourning ones-but now,

in perfect peace,

They sing the song of the Redeemed, where woe for ave shall cease.