While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, That marched so calmly round above her, Was a little dimmed,--as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face. Yet one couldn't but love her, For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day; And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, "Passing away! passing away!" While yet I looked, what a change there came! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, Yet just as busily swung she on; The garland beneath her had fallen to dust; The wheels above her were eaten with rust: The hands, that over the dial swept, Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone (Let me never forget till my dying day The tone or the burden of her lay), "Passing away! passing away!" JOHN PIERPONT. * * * * * LINES FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT WESTMINSTER. E'en such is time; that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. * * * * * MY AIN COUNTREE. "But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly."--HEBREWS xi. 16. I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aftenwhiles, For the langed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's welcome smiles; I'll never be fu' content, until mine een do see The shining gates o' heaven an' my ain countree. The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights an' these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. I've his gude word of promise that some gladsome day, the King To his ain royal palace his banished hame will bring: Wi' een an' wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain countree. My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his hand shall dry mine e'e, When he brings me hame at last, to my ain countree. Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast; For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, And carries them himse' to his ain countree.