Years rolled on—that youthful vision Haunted still the maiden’s brain, Oft her fainting heart beguiling Of its toil, and care, and pain; Onward, upward still she passed, By Ambition daily fed, Till that star e’en as a halo Threw its lustre round her head. But have none, save that fair maiden, ’Neath Italia’s sunset sky, Had pre-knowledge of the future— Known their coming destiny? Yea—for all—or soon or later— Are Life’s mysteries unsealed— If its oracle, the prescience, Oft hath Heaven in love revealed. Not at even, seen but dimly, Doth the glorious scene appear, But at noonday, in Faith’s sunlight, Shines in truthful radiance clear; Not a marble statue raised By the flattering hand of Fame— But a cross—the Cross most holy. Lifted up in Jesus’ name! Low upon its base, engraven —Man—as if upon the stone Constant tears had wrought the title, Sadly, secretly—alone; Upward o’er the cross appearing, Brighter than the orbs on high, One fair star full often blesses, The upraised—the prayerful eye. Let us from the heavenly vision Comfort under trial gain; Though upon our drooping shoulders We the heavy Cross sustain, Still the Star of Bethlehem shineth, With its clear, consoling light, And by its all-powerful glory, Day shall take the place of night! * * * * * RAIL-ROAD SONG. BY T. H. CHIVERS, M. D. All aboard? Yes! Tingle, tingle, Goes the bell, as we all mingle— No one sitting solely single— As the fireman builds his fire, And the steam gets higher, higher— Thus fulfilling his desire— Which forever he keeps feeding With the pine-knots he is needing, As he on his way goes speeding— And the Iron Horse goes rushing, With his fiery face all flushing— Every thing before him crushing— While the smoke goes upward curling, Spark-bespangled in unfurling, And the iron-wheels go whirling, Like two mighty mill-stones grinding, When no miller is them minding— All the eye with grit-dust blinding— And the cars begin to rattle, And the springs go tittle-tattle— Driving off the grazing cattle— As if Death were fiends pursuing To their uttermost undoing— With a clitta, clatta, clatter, Like the devil beating batter Down below in iron platter, As if something was the matter; Then it changes to a clanking, And a clinking, and a clanking, And a clanking, and a clinking— Then returns to clatta, clatter, Clitta, clatta, clatta, clatter— And the song that I now offer For Apollo’s Golden Coffer— With the friendship that I proffer— Is for Riding on a Rail.