LAMENTATION.

When I had shut the book, I said

"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed Are not like Jacob's dream;

Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I,

And many more: it doth not us beseem,
Therefore, to sigh.

Is there not hung a ladder in our sky?
Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on high
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men.
We have no dream! What then?

Like winged wayfarers the height they scale
By Him that offers them they shall prevail-
The prayers of men.

But where is found a prayer for me;
How should I pray?

My heart is sick and full of strife.

I heard one whisper, with departing breath,
"Suffer us not, for any pains of death,
To fall from Thee."

But, O, the pains of life! the pains of life!
There is no comfort now, and naught to win,
But yet I will begin.

I.

"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, For that is wasted away;

And much of it was cankered ere it went. "Preserve to me my health," I cannot say, For that, upon a day,

Went after other delights to banishment.

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II.

What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness?"
No, I would still possess

Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern.
"Give me again my kindred?" Nay, not so;

Not idle prayers. We know

They that have crossed the river cannot return.

I do not

III.

pray, "Comfort me! comfort me!'

For how should comfort be?

0-0 that cooing mouth-that little white head!
No; but I pray, "If it be not too late,
Open to me the gate,

That I may find my babe when I am dead.

IV.

"Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee When I was happy and free,

Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun; But now I come and mourn; O set my feet

In the road to Thy blest seat,

And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done."

Loved too Late.

EAR after year, with a glad content,
In and out of our home he went-
In and out.

Ever for us the skies were clear:
His heart carried the care and fear,
The care and doubt

Our hands held with a careless hold
All that he won of honor and gold
In toil and pain.

O dear hands that our burdens bore-
Hands that shall toil for us no more,
Never again!

Oh, it was hard to learn our loss,
Bearing daily the heavy cross-

The cross he bore:

To say, with an aching heart and head, "Would to God that the Love now dead

Were here once more!"

For when the Love we held too light
Was gone away from our speech and sight,
No bitter tears,

No passionate words of fond regret,

No yearning grief, could pay the debt

Of thankless years.

Oh, now while the sweet Love lingers near, Grudge not the tender words of cheer.

NDER the lilac bushes,

When the bloom was at its height,
Under the fragrant lilacs,

We stood on a summer's night,
While he told me the old, old story

Old and yet ever new;

And I listened, because I loved him:
What else could a woman do?

Under the lilac bushes,

Only ourselves alone,

I bent to his lightest whisper,
I thrilled to his lowest tone.

He painted a glowing future,
Beautiful, fond, and true,

And I listened, because I believed him:

What else could a woman do?

Oh, such a glorious summer!

Never its like before;

Never such wealth of gladness

Had flooded a glad heart o'er;

FAR OUT IN THE WEST.

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Never such joy in living

Under the heavens blue;

And I loved him, because I loved him:
What else could a woman do?

Where is he now? Why ask me?

For I am learning to-day

There are always two sides to a story,
Look at it as we may.

Some one will read the right side;
The wrong has fallen to me,

And my heart has refused to question
Where its false love may be.

Far Out in the West.

AM poor; I am shabby. There's something about me
That fellows in broadcloth will look on askance;

The maids in their soft flowing flounces will doubt me,
And sneer if I offer my hand in the dance.

But when I am sad, there's a vision that cures me,
And lightens the heart that has sunk in my breast;
In daylight and darkness it ever allures me:
A jolly log-cabin far out in the West

A shabby log-cabin, a shaky log-cabin,

A jolly log-cabin far out in the West.

Then ho! for the land where the sunset is glowing!
Good-by to the town with its perils and woe!
Where forests are waving and broad rivers flowing

There is room for a fellow whose pockets are low.