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ALL THINGS ONCE ARE THINGS FOR EVER.

ALL things once are things for ever;
Soul, once living, lives for ever;
Blame not what is only once,
When that once endures for ever;
Love, once felt, though soon forgot
Moulds the heart to good for ever;

Once betrayed from childly faith,
Man is conscious man for ever;
Once the void of life revealed,
It must deepen on for ever,
Unless God fill up the heart
With himself for once and ever:
Once made God and man at once,
God and man are one for ever.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. | As he died to make men holy, let us

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die to make men free, While God is marching on!

[From Thoughts in Père la Chaise.] IMAGINED REPLY OF ELOISA TO THE POET'S QUESTIONING. "WHAT was I cannot tell-thou know'st our story,

Know'st how we stole God's treasure from on high;

Without heaven's virtue we had heaven's glory,

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bur- Too justly our delights were doomed

nished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on!"

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men be

fore his judgment-seat; Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;

to die.

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She ranged my hair with gem or flower,

Careful, the festal draperies hung,
Or plied her needle, hour by hour
In cadence with the song I sung.

My highest joy she could not share,
Nor fathom sorrow's deep abyss;
For that, she wore a smiling air,
She hung her head and pined for this.

“And she shall live with me," I said,
"Till all my pretty ones be grown;
I'll give my girls my little maid,
The gayest thing I call my own."

Or else, methought, some farmer bold Should woo and win my gentle Lizzie,

Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty, still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown.

THE DEAD CHRIST.

TAKE the dead Christ to my chamber,
Over all the tossing ocean,
The Christ I brought from Rome;

He has reached his western home;
Bear him as in procession,
And lay him solemnly
Where, through weary night and
morning,

He shall bear me company.

And I should stock her house four-The name I bear is other

fold,

Be with her wedding blithely busy.

But lo! Consumption's spectral form Sucks from her lips the flickering breath;

In these pale flowers, these tear-drops

warm,

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Than than that I bore by birth, And I've given life to children

But the time comes swiftly towards Who'll grow and dwell on earth;

me

(Nor do I bid it stay), When the dead Christ will be more

to me

Than all I hold to-day.

Lay the dead Christ beside me,

Öh, press him on my heart, I would hold him long and painfully Till the weary tears should start; Till the divine contagion

Heal me of self and sin, And the cold weight press wholly down

The pulse that.chokes within.

Reproof and frost, they fret me,

Towards the free, the sunny lands, From the chaos of existence I stretch these feeble hands; And, penitential, kneeling,

Pray God would not be wroth, Who gave not the strength of feeling, And strength of labor both.

Thou'rt but a wooden carving,
Defaced of worms, and old;
Yet more to me thou couldst not be
Wert thou all wrapt in gold

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