In their proper speech:

High above my head they wheeled,

Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came
With a cadenced clang,

Their silver wings tinkled,

Their golden wings rang,

The wind it whistled through their wings Where in Heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted
Awhile before mine eyes,

Mounting, mounting, mounting still

In haste to scale the skiesBirds without a nest on earth,

Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riseth not,

Nor sun seeks the west, There to sing their glory Which they sing at rest, There to sing their love-song When they sing their best :

Not in any garden

That mortal foot hath trod,

Nor in any flowering tree

That springs from earthly sod, But in the garden where they dwell, The Paradise of GOD.

THE LAND TO WHICH I'M GOING.

WHEN the death-dews dim my eyes,

WHE

And my bosom panting lies,

Ebbing life's receding sighs

Shorter, fainter growing;
Ere my spirit breaks her way,
Through her prison-walls of clay,
Into realms of endless day-

The land to which I'm going.

May the dear familiar band

Of weeping friends that round me stand, Watching the decreasing sand,

Fast and faster flowing,

Chant some low strain, blending well

With the solemn passing bell,

Of the holy home to tell;

The land to which I'm going.

Let them sing "Thy Saviour, guide,
For thy guilty sake that died,
Even now is by thy side,

Comfort-thoughts bestowing.
Angelic forms their arms extend,
And smileth many a long-lost friend
Glad welcome to thy journey's end--

The land to which thou'rt going.

Then, as the burden of their song
In faint sweet cadence dies along,
One happy, radiant look among
That group of mourners throwing;-
Just as they faded from my view,
I fain would breathe one fond adieu,
Till in that land we meet anew-
The land to which I'm going.

I

THEY ARE NOT DEAD.

"She is not dead, but sleepeth."

"There is no death,-what seems so, is Transition."

CANNOT feel them dead,

Those loved ones in the sky!— To leave the paths that mortals tread, And soar where seraph feet are led, O'er sapphire pavements overhead,— Sure this is not to die!

To go, with pleasant dreams,

To rest beneath Death's wave,— And wake where flow immortal streams,Where everything in sunshine gleams,Amid the bright Shekinah's beams!Is not to find a grave!

To slumber 'neath the sod,—

Like flowers at Frost-King's breath,— Then bursting from his icy rod,

Shake off the valley's cumb'ring clod,
And rise all beautified to God!-

This does not seem like death!

How can it e'er be said

Of those who live on high?-
When the dark river round them spread,
They meekly bowed their waiting head,
And laid it on a downy bed!-

But Christians do not die!

They only go to rest,

As goes the bird and bee;

They wake the white-robed angels' guest!-
Like them in wedding garments drest,-
With them to share the banquet blest
Of immortality!

Oh! no, they are not dead!

For Christians cannot die!-
But if like them we patient tread

The hidden path where they were led.-
I know a voice all truth hath said,

We'll meet them by-and-by!

THE CHARMER.

Mrs. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

["Socrates. However, you and Simmias appear to me as if you wished to sift this subject more thoroughly, and to be afraid, like children, lest on the soul's departure from the body, winds should blow it away.'

Upon this, Cebes said, Endeavor to search us better, Socrates. . . Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast, that has such a dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.'

"But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, until you have quieted his fears.'

"But whence, Oh Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us.'

"Greece is wide, Cebes,' he replied, and in it surely there are skilful men, and there are also many barbarous nations, all of which you should search, seeking such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as there is nothing on which can more reasonably spend your money.'"-Last conversation of Socrates with his disciples, as narrated by Plato in the Phaedo.]

E need that CHARMER, for our hearts are sore,

WE
W with longings for the things that may not be,

Faint for the friends that shall return no more,
Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony.

you

What is this life? and what to us is death?
Whence came we? whither go? and where are those
Who, in a moment, stricken from our side,
Passed to that land of shadow and repose?

Are they all dust? and dust must we become?
Or are they living in some unknown clime?
Shall we regain them in that far-off home,

And live anew beyond the waves of time?