From step to step, through long and weary time, The struggling atoms rise in Nature's plan, Till dust instinctive reaches mind sublime-- Till lowliest being finds its bloom in Man! Here, on the borders of that Realm of Peace, The gathered burdens of existence rest, And like a sea whose surges never cease, Heaves with its care the weary human breast. Oh! bright effulgence of th' Eternal Power, Break the worn band, and wide thy portals roll! With silent glory flood the solemn hour When star-eyed slumber welcomes back the soul! Then shall the spirit sink in rapture down, Like some rich blossom drunk with noontide's beam, Or the wild bliss of music, sent to crown The wakening moment of a midnight dream. Through all the luminous seas of ether there, Stirs not a trembling wave, to break the rest; But fragrance, and the silent sense of prayer, Charm the eternal slumber of the Blest! MY FATHER'S GRAVE. BY S. D. ANDERSON. It is a sweet and shady spot Beneath the aged trees, Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend Unto the passing breeze; And joyous song-birds warble there Rich music to the sunny air, And many a golden-tinted beam Fails on the spot like childhood's dream. The moss-clad church is standing there, The stream goes laughing by, Sending its gurgling music out Along a summer sky; The rose has found a dwelling here Beside the coffin and the bier; And here the lily rears its head, Within this _Eden_ of the dead. The sunlight glances on the scene With many a sombre hue, Caught from the cypress near the stream, Or from the funeral yew; And, spirit-like, above each stone Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone, As if the spirit lingered there, Enchanted with a scene so fair. The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers That climb the ruined wall, And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb With Nature's fairest pall; And dirge-like sings the trickling rill, At evening's hour when all is still; Whilst echo answers back again In mimic notes the plaintive strain. But moonlight gilds the scene anew, Now all is hushed and calm; The very winds seem sunk to rest, O'erladen with their balm; The stars, pale watchers of the night, Look brightly out on such a sight; Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail Is wafted on the evening gale. Be mine the lot, when life's dull day Has drawn unto a close, And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame, Have sunk to calm repose, By all forgot, to rest my head Unmarked beside the silent dead; Hushed by the murmurs of the wave That moans around my FATHER'S GRAVE. VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND. WORDS BY JOHN S. ADAMS. COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE BY VALENTINE DISTER.