Across the distance of the years She sends her God-speed back to you; She has no thought of doubts or fears Be but yourselves, be pure, be true, And prompt in duty; heed the deep, Low voice of conscience; through the ill And discord round about you, keep Your faith in human nature still. Be gentle: unto griefs and needs, Be pitiful as woman should, And, spite of all the lies of creeds, Hold fast the truth that God is good. Give and receive; go forth and bless The world that needs the hand and heart Of Martha's helpful carefulness No less than Mary's better part. So shall the stream of time flow by And leave each year a richer good, And matron loveliness outvie The nameless charm of maidenhood. And, when the world shall link your names With gracious lives and manners fine, The teacher shall assert her claims, And proudly whisper, "These were mine!" HYMN OF THE CHILDREN. Sung at the anniversary of the Children's Mission, Boston, 1878. Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod, And the starving fed. Let Thy children, by Thy grace, Give as they abound, Till the poor have breathing-space, And the lost are found. Wiser than the miser's hoards Is the giver's choice; Sweeter than the song of birds Is the thankful voice. Welcome smiles on faces sad As the flowers of spring; Let the tender hearts be glad With the joy they bring. Happier for their pity's sake Make their sports and plays, And from lips of childhood take Thy perfected praise! THE LANDMARKS. This poem was read at a meeting of citizens of Boston having for its object the preservation of the Old South Church famous in Colonial and Revolutionary history. I. THROUGH the streets of Marblehead Fast the red-winged terror sped; Blasting, withering, on it came, With its hundred tongues of flame, Where St. Michael's on its way Stood like chained Andromeda, Waiting on the rock, like her, Swift doom or deliverer! Church that, after sea-moss grew Over walls no longer new, Counted generations five, Four entombed and one alive; Heard the martial thousand tread Battleward from Marblehead; Saw within the rock-walled bay Treville's liked pennons play, And the fisher's dory met By the barge of Lafayette, Telling good news in advance Of the coming fleet of France! Church to reverend memories, dear, Quaint in desk and chandelier; Bell, whose century-rusted tongue Burials tolled and bridals rung; Loft, whose tiny organ kept Keys that Snetzler's hand had swept; Altar, o'er whose tablet old Sinai's law its thunders rolled! Suddenly the sharp cry came "Look! St. Michael's is aflame!" Round the low tower wall the fire Snake-like wound its coil of ire. Sacred in its gray respect From the jealousies of sect, "Save it," seemed the thought of all, "Save it, though our roof-trees fall!" Up the tower the young men sprung; One, the bravest, outward swung By the rope, whose kindling strands Smoked beneath the holder's hands,