If for a time some loved one goes away, And leaves us our appointed work to do, Can we to him or to ourselves be true In mourning his departure day by day, And so our work delay? Nay, if we love and honor, we shall make The absence brief by doing well our task,-- Not for ourselves, but for the dear One's sake. And at his coming only of him ask Approval of the work, which most was done, Not for ourselves, but our Beloved One. Our Father's house, I know, is broad and grand; In it how many, many mansions are! And, far beyond the light of sun or star, Four little ones of mine through that fair land Are walking hand in hand! Think you I love not, or that I forget These of my loins? Still this world is fair, And I am singing while my eyes are wet With weeping in this balmy summer air: Yet I'm not homesick, and the children _here_ Have need of me, and so my way is clear. I would be joyful as my days go by, Counting God's mercies to rue. He who bore Life's heaviest cross is mine forever-more, And I who wait his coming, shall not I On his sure word rely? And if sometimes the way be rough and steep, Be heavy for the grief he sends to me, Or at my waking I would only weep, Let me remember these are things to be, To work his blessed will until he comes To take my hand, and lead me safely home. ANSON D.F. RANDOLPH. * * * * * SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. Sit down, sad soul, and count The moments flying; Come, tell the sweet amount That's lost by sighing! How many smiles?--a score? Then laugh, and count no more; For day is dying! Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, And no more measure The flight of time, nor weep The loss of leisure; But here, by this lone stream, Lie down with us, and dream Of starry treasure! We dream: do thou the same; We love,--forever; We laugh, yet few we shame,-- The gentle never. Stay, then, till sorrow dies; Then--hope and happy skies Are thine forever! BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (_Barry Cornwall_.) * * * * * IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL. "Urit me Patriae decor." It kindles all my soul, My country's loveliness! Those starry choirs That watch around the pole, And the moon's tender light, and heavenly fires Through golden halls that roll. O chorus of the night! O planets, sworn The music of the spheres To follow! Lovely watchers, that think scorn To rest till day appears! Me, for celestial homes of glory born, Why here, O, why so long, Do ye behold an exile from on high? Here, O ye shining throng, With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie: Here let me drop my chain, And dust to dust returning, cast away The trammels that remain; The rest of me shall spring to endless day!