THE MORNING-GLORY.

We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head,

Till she lay stretched before our eyes:
Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round;

We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground;
The tender things the Winter killed
Renew again their birth.

But the glory of our morning

Has passed away from earth.

O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain!

Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,

Her spirit to sustain!

But up in groves of Paradise

Full surely we shall see

Our morning-glory beautiful

Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

MARIA WHITE Lowell.

A DIRGE.

"O DIG a grave, and dig it deep,
Where I and my true-love may sleep!"
We'll dig a grave, and dig it deep,
Where thou and thy true-love shall sleep!

"And let it be five fathom low,

Where winter winds may never blow!"
And it shall be five fathom low,
Where winter winds shall never blow!

"And let it be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil!"
And it shall be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil !

"And plant it round with holy briers,
To fright away the fairy fires!"

We'll plant it round with holy briers,
To fright away the fairy fires!

"And set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine ! "
We'll set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!

A DIRGE.

"And let the ruddock build his nest
Just above my true-love's breast!"

The ruddock he shall build his nest
Just above thy true-love's breast!

"And warble his sweet wintry song
O'er our dwelling all day long!"
And he shall warble his sweet song
O'er your dwelling all day long.

"Now, tender friends, my garments take,
And lay me out for Jesus' sake!"
And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake!

"And lay me by my true-love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!"

We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side,
That thou may'st be a faithful bride!

"When I am dead, and buried be,
Pray to God in heaven for me!"

Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee,
And pray to God in heaven for thee!

Benedicite!

WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE.

OVER THE RIVER.

OVER the river they beckon to me,

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me.

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet;
Her brown curls wave in the gentle gale:
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be:

Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

OVER THE RIVER.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale.
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts : They cross the stream and are gone for aye.

We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,

I shall one day stand by the water cold

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit-land.
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.