O dear ones there! Whose voices, hushed, have left our pathway lonely, We come, erelong, your blessèd home to share; We take the guiding hand, we trust it only-- Seeing, by faith, beyond this clouded air, That land so fair! ANONYMOUS. * * * * * FOREVER WITH THE LORD. Forever with the Lord! Amen! so let it be! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality. Here in the body pent, Absent from him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to faith's foreseeing eye Thy golden gates appear! Ah! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above! Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies. Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease; While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart Expands the bow of peace! Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around. I hear at morn and even, At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. Then, then I feel that he, Remembered or forgot, The Lord, is never far from me, Though I perceive him not. In darkness as in light, Hidden alike from view, I sleep, I wake, as in his sight Who looks all nature through. All that I am, have been, All that I yet may be, He sees at once, as he hath seen, And shall forever see. "Forever with the Lord;" Father, if 'tis thy will, The promise of that faithful word Unto thy child fulfil! So, when my latest breath Shall rend the veil in twain, By death I shall escape from death, And life eternal gain. JAMES MONTGOMERY. * * * * * TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI SAINT. To heaven approached a Sufi Saint, From groping in the darkness late, And, tapping timidly and faint, Besought admission at God's gate. Said God, "Who seeks to enter here?" "'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear. "If it be _thou_, without abide." Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, To bear the scourging of life's rods; But aye his heart within him yearned To mix and lose its love in God's. He roamed alone through weary years, By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears Again he rose, and modest knocked. Asked God, "Who now is at the door?" "It is thyself, belovèd Lord," Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, But clasped and rapt in his reward. From the Persian of JALLAL-AD-DIN RUMI. Translation of WILLIAM R. ALGER. * * * * * MATTER AND MAN IMMORTAL.