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HEAVEN'S SUNRISE TO EARTH'S BLINDNESS.

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HEAVEN'S SUNRISE TO EARTH'S BLINDNESS.

T is the hour for souls,

"And second, sapphire; third, chalcedony ;

That bodies, leavened by the The rest in order; last, an amethyst."

will and love,

Be lightened to redemption.

The world's old,

But the old world waits the

hour to be renewed

Toward which new hearts in

individual growth

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And music is sounding its joyous call,

Must quicken and increase to And the guests are gathering the young,

multitude

the fair,

In new dynasties of the race With the flower-wreathed brow and the

of men;

Developed whence, shall grow spontaneously New churches, new ceremonies, new laws Admitting freedom, new societies

braided hair.

I come, but so noiseless shall be my way Through the smiling crowds of the young and gay

Excluding falsehood. He shall make all Not a thought shall rise in a careless breast

new.

My Romney! Lifting up my hand in his,
As wheeled by seeing spirits toward the east,
He turned instinctively where faint and fair
Along the tingling desert of the sky,
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills,
Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as glass
The first foundations of that new, near day
Which should be builded out of heaven to
God.

He stood a moment with erected brows,
In silence, as a creature might who gazed-
Stood calm and fed his blind, majestic eyes
Upon the thought of perfect noon. And

when

I saw his soul saw, "Jasper first," I said;

Of me, the unseen, the unbidden guest; Not an undertone on the ear shall swell, Smiting your hearts like a funeral-knell.

I come! Let the music's echoing note
Still through the air of your ballroom
float;

Let the starry lamps soft radiance throw
On the rose-touched cheek and the brow of

snow:

Not a freezing pulse, not a thrill of fear, Shall tell that the king of the grave is

near;

Not a pallid face, not a rayless eye,
Shall whisper of me as I hurry by
Marking the doomed I shall summon away
To their low dark cells in the house of clay.

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They faded away when the groves were Oh, the good and the pure have naught to

fear

green, When the suns of autumn were faint and When my voice in the gathering gloom they

brief

On the withered grass and the changing leaf;
And here there is many a pulse shall fail
Ere the suns of the passing year grow pale.

Then swell the proud strains of your music high

As the measured hours of your life flit by; Let the foot of the thoughtless dancer be As fleet as it will, it eludes not me.

I shall come when life's morning ray is bright,

I shall come in the hush of its waning light, I shall come when the ties of earth cling fast, When love's sweet voice is a voice of the past.

To your homes and pray! for ye wait your doom

The shroud, the coffin, the lonely tomb.

Ye would quail, ye tremblers, to see me here,
Yet the mission I hold is of love, not fear:
A healing I bear to the couch of pain,
I fling from the spirit its cumbering chain,
And weary old age to my rest shall hie
With a smiling lip and a grateful eye;
When life like a sorrowful mourner weeps
O'er the grave where its early promise sleeps,
Oh earth has no balm like the cup I bring:
Why say ye I come with the dart and sting?

gay!

hear. Away from the dance, ye revellers Fling off the wreath: to your homes and pray!

LUELLA J. CASE.

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And round her now, as still she sleeps

Encoffined in her prime,

No in anguished sorrow weeps, eye

For grief is here sublime.

E'en while she lived an awe was cast

Around her loveliness;

It seemed as if, whene'er she passed,
A spirit came to bless.

A child upraised its tiny hands,

And cried, "Oh, weep no more!
Mother, behold! an angel stands
Before our cottage door."

We would not bring her back to life
With word or charm or sign,
Nor yet recall to scenes of strife

A creature all divine;

We would not even ask to shred

One tress of golden gleam
That o'er that fair and perfect head

Sheds a refulgent beam.

No! Lay her with her shining hair

Around her flowing bright;

We would not keep of one so rare

Memorials in our sight.

Too harsh a shade would seem to lie

On all things here beneath

If we beheld one token by

Of her who sleeps in death.

CATHERINE A. WARFIELD and ELEANOR P. LEE.

CANZONET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF LUIS DE CAMOENS.

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WHY wrapped he not a martyr's robe

Around his lofty form?

Why bore he not with dauntless brow

The bursting of the storm?

Why cringed the mind that proudly soared
Where others gazed dismayed
With servile will before the power

Whose grasp was on him laid?

They tell us it was fear that bowed
His mighty spirit when
He stooped beneath the rusty links
Of Superstition's chain;
The dungeon-cell was dark, and light
Was pleasant to his eye,
And, holy tho' the truth, for it

He did not dare to die.

LOWERS are fresh and bushes green, Fear! What had he to do with fear

FLO

Cheerily the linnets sing;

Winds are soft and skies serene :

Time, however, soon shall throw

Winter's snow

O'er the buxom breast of Spring.

Who ventured out abroad, Unpiloted, thro' pathless space

By angels only trod

Who wandered with unfailing flight Creation's vastness o'er,

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