Sometimes when morning's iris light
Is flaming in the eastern sky,

I say, Beneath that rose and white

The blessed realm must surely lie! But morning's brow by noon is fanned, And thou art still the distant land.

And oft when sunset's burnished gold.
Falls warm upon the water's breast,
I say, Beyond that glorious fold

Must gleam the islands of the blest!
But stars steal out, a silent band,
And thou art still the distant land.

And then I dream-a blissful dream

That I have gained thy tranquil bowers,

And lo! life's sorrows only seem

Winds that a moment bent its flowers

I wake, I clasp no angel hand,
And thou art still the distant land.

I watch, I long, I faint for thee!
Canst thou not open wide the door,
That I may enter in and be

Part of thy peace forevermore?
O send that sleep so sweet, so grand,
And thou shalt be no distant land!

I'

I'M KNEELING AT THE THRESHOLD.

From the Sunday Magazine.

'M kneeling at the threshold, weary, faint and sore.: Waiting for the dawning, for the opening of the

door ;

Waiting till the Master shall bid me rise and come
To the glory of His presence, to the gladness of His

home.

A weary path I've travelled, 'mid darkness, storm and strife;

Bearing many a burden, struggling for my life:

But now the morn is breaking, my toil will soon be o'er,

I'm kneeling at the threshold, my hand is on the door.

Methinks I hear the voices of the blessed as they stand,

Singing in the sunshine of the sinless land;

O! would that I were with them, amid their shining throng,

Mingling in their worship, joining in their song.

The friends that started with me have entered long

ago;

One by one they left me struggling with the foe; Their pilgrimage was shorter, their triumph sooner

won;

How lovingly they'll hail me when my toil is done!

With them the blessed angels that know no grief nor

sin,

I see them by the portals, prepared to let me in.

O Lord, I wait Thy pleasure, Thy time and way are

best;

But I am wasted, worn and weary; O, Father, bid me rest!

THE LAND WHERE MY NESTLINGS BE.

JEAN INGELOW.

SONG of a boat:

A was

There was once a boat on a billow,

Lightly she rocked to her port remote,

And the foam was white in her wake like snow,

And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow, And bent like wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat
Went courtesying over a billow;

I marked her course, till a dancing mote,
She faded out on the moonlit foam,

And I stayed behind, in the dear, loved home:
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dream upon a pillow.

I pray you hear my song of a boat,
For it is but short;

My boat, you shall find nothing fairer afloat,
In river or port.

524

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open, desolate sea,

And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me!

Ah, me!

A song of a nest:

There was once a nest in a hollow,
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim;
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long;

You shall never light, in a summer quest
The bushes among―

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah, happy, happy, I!

Right dearly I loved them: but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly

O, one after one they flew away,

Far up to the heavenly blue,

To the better country, the upper day,

And I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me

My empty nest?

And what is the shore, where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good man has sailed?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hopes have failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be: There is the home where my thoughts are sentThe only home for me

Ah, me!

AS HOME WE WAFT FROM OUR ALIEN

SHORE.

BISHOP COXE.

S

O, in our simple creed,

We drop this frail mortality we wear, And laud to Him who for our sakes did bleed, And on His cross our bitter griefs did bearWe know our ransomed nature, certain heir Of deathless being from its dying seed.

They who nurse hopes, live every day an age, And strive more fleet to live, by living well: And so we hasten on our pilgrimage,

Plucking earth's flowers, but fain in heaven to dwell. Life, in our ear, doth mean eternity;