This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit Until in death his patient eye grew dim, And his Redeemer called him to inherit The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.

So, if I ever win the home in heaven
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and
pray,

In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

BABYHOOD

WHAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!

Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,

And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,

As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!

Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by
fears,

Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he 'll never know

Where the summers go;
He need not laugh, for he 'll find it so !

Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,

Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds -

Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he 'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,
Over his brow, and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! He is hushed in sweet repose!

There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth.

Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing,

For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

In the light of that star
Lie the ages impearled;
And that song from afar
Has swept over the world.

Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful

sing

In the homes of the nations that Jesus is

King.

We rejoice in the light,

And we echo the song

That comes down through the night
From the heavenly throng.

Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring,

And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King.

Where, as the Benedictine laid

His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here, - this rugged

face Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, Dread scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth;

Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own,

The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now:
Before his name the nations bow;

His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,

The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

DIRGE

FOR ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

ROOM for a soldier ! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his

cover;

Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches;

Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches,

Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches:

Make his mound with sunshine on it.
Where the bee will dine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the rain will rain upon it.

Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover;

Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover;

Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over:

Where the rain may rain upon it,
Where the sun may shine upon it,
Where the lamb hath lain upon it,
And the bee will dine upon it.

Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep;

And that mysterious tie a mother bears.

She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed;

Set her down gently at the iron door! Eyes look on that loved image for the last: Now cover it in earth, her earth no

more.

HER EPITAPH

THE handful here, that once was Mary's earth,

Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a

soul,

That, when she died, all recognized her birth,

And had their sorrow in serene control.

"Not here! not here !" to every mourner's

heart

The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;