I look at their fresh young faces,
And hark to each merry word,
For to me, a child's own language
Is the sweetest e'er was heard.

And so, I sit in my doorway

In the hour that I love the best,
And think as I see them passing,

My child will come with the rest:
Think, when I hear the clicking
Of the little garden gate,
My darling's hand is upon it—
O, why has she come so late?

But the days have been slowly weaving
Their warp of toil in my life;

The weeks have rolled on me their burden
Of waiting and patience and strife;
The flowers that came with the summer
Have finished their errand so sweet,
And autumn is drooping her harvests
Mellow and ripe at my feet.

And yet my little girl comes not,

And I think she has missed her way, And strayed from this cold, dark country To one of perpetual day.

I think that the angels have found her,
And, loving her better than we,

Have begged the Good Father to keep her
Right on, through eternity.

Perhaps. But I long to enfold her,
To tangle my hand in her hair,

To feast my starved mouth on her kisses,
To hear her light foot on the stair.

I am but a poor, selfish mother,

And mother-hearts starve, though they know
Their children are drinking the nectar
From lilies in heaven that blow.

Some day I am sure I shall find her,—
But the road is so lonesome between,
My spirit grows sick and impatient
For a glimpse of the pastures so green;
Till then I shall sit in the doorway,

In the hour that my heart loves best,
And think, when the children pass homeward,
My child will come with the rest.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

LADY NAIRne.

I'M wearin' awa', Jean,

Like sna'-wraiths in tha', Jean,

I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,

There's nither could, nair care, Jean,

The days are a' fair

I' the Land o' the Leal.

O, dry your glistening e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels beckon me

To the Land o' the Leal. Ye have been gude an' true, Jean, Your task's near ended noo, Jean,

And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonny bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith gude and fair, Jean,

And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, And joys are coming fast, Jean, The joy that's aye to last,

I' the Land o' the Leal.

Our friends are a' gane, Jean,
We've long been left alane, Jean,

We'll a' meet again

I' the Land o' the Leal. Then fare thee weel, my ain Jean, This warld's cares are vain, Jean, We'll meet, an' a' ll be plain,

I' the Land o' the Leal!

BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.

HORATIUS BONAR.

EYOND the smiling and the weeping,

BEY

I shall be soon:

Beyond the waking and the sleeping,

Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet home!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the blooming and the fading,
I shall be soon:

Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,

I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet home!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

Beyond the rising and the setting,
I shall be soon;

Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet home!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the parting and the meeting,
I shall be soon:

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond the pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet home!

Lord, tarry not, but come!

Beyond the frost-chain and the fever,
I shall be soon:

Beyond the rock-waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.

Love, rest, and home!

Sweet-home!

Lord, tarry not, but come.

WHERE DOST THOU LIE, O LAND OF PEACE.

ANONYMOUS.

WHERE dost thou lie, O Land of Peace?

WH

Across what foaming ocean's swell?

My heart, with sighs that never cease,
Yearns in thy palaces to dwell;

But yet, O fair and distant land,
I cannot see thy shining strand.