_Here!_ not here! ’tis a fearful place— Were they not gentle, with steps of grace? Were they not glad as the birds in June? With hearts like a fountain of joyful tune? They were with us at morn, and with us at night, Their locks were of gold, and their eyes of light! Yet—yet, ye say they are dead; Tell us the land where their footsteps tread! Oh! there is _one_ who hath sought its shore, Never to smile with us, weep with us more; Soon, _too_ soon; ’tis a mournful thing To pass with the bier o’er the flowers of spring! List! list! she is coming now! Twine ye the wreath for her gladsome brow, Gather the buds, ay, the buds that keep Such trembling dreams in their breasts, asleep, Beauteous types of her heart are they; Cull them from streamlet and glen away! Here, here, when the sun is low, We shall sit again, when the shadows throw Their dusky wings o’er mount and sea, And speak of the past, and the time to be! Counting the links that have broken away From each chain at the fount, where the heart-streams play! Hist! hist! did you hear her pass, The ringing laugh on her lip? Alas! Say ye again that she slumbers low? Mourner, why art thou shaken so? Death is the veil that the spirit takes, When the light of God on its sorrowing breaks! Then, then, thou’lt murmur _no more_! Peace to the weary who travel before! Blesséd are they He hath chosen and tried, Blesséd are they in His love that have died; Heart! let thy throbbings be constant to prayer, So thou wouldst dwell where thy cherished ones are! Turn! turn, look down through the vale Stretching before thee, where, saddened and pale, Sorrow is beck’ning thee—sorrow and wrong— Weak though thine arm may be, feeble thy song, God smileth aye, on the small “precious seed,” Making the harvest-time golden indeed! Thou hast been sleeping; wake from thy dreams! Wo for that waking till God o’er it gleams! Better the sleeper were locked in his rest, Better the sun had gone down in his west! Yet if thy path windeth up through thy fears, Hope’s resurrection shall dawn on thy tears! Hope! Hope! transfigured and bright, Walking with Faith on the mountains of light! Bidding thee weep the departed no more, _Angels_ await at the sepulchre door! Bidding thee take up thy cross, for the day Soon from thy vision will vanish away! * * * * * THE HOMESTEAD OF BEAUTY. BY S. D. ANDERSON.