From the walled city came,
Calling on his dear name,
That it has died away
In the distance of to-day?
O Absalom, my son!

There is no far or near,

There is neither there nor here,
There is neither soon nor late,
In that Chamber over the Gate,
Nor any long ago

To that cry of human woe,
O Absalom, my son!

From the ages that are past
The voice comés like a blast,
Over seas that wreck and drown,
Over tumult of traffic and town;
And from ages yet to be

Come the echoes back to me,

.

O Absalom, my son!

Somewhere at every hour.
The watchman from his tower
Looks forth, and sees the fleet
Approach of the hurrying feet
Of messengers, that bear
The tidings of despair.
O Absalom, my son!

He goes forth from the door,
Who shall return no more.
With him our joy departs;
The light goes out in our hearts;
In the Chamber over the Gate
We sit disconsolate.

O Absalom, my son!

That 't is a common grief

Bringeth slight relief;

Ours is the bitterest loss,
Ours is the heaviest cross;
And forever the cry will be,

"Would God I had died for thee,

O Absalom, my son!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THIS

On Viewing a Statue of David

'HIS was the shepherd boy who slung the stone And killed the giant; sunshine and the wind Had given his harp so clear and strange a tone That all the world forgave him when he sinned.

The gently formed and stately Greek who stood
On the Piazza, throned in classic pride,
Was not the boy who roamed through field and wood,
Fighting and singing on the bright hillside.

Swift on the mountains, swift to save or slay;
Eager and passionate and lithe of form;
Fighting and singing, pausing but to pray,
Unto his God of music and of storm.

The bare hillside and sharp rocks castellate
Rang with the clanging of his bow;

Where in the dawn of the world's love and hate,
He found and would not slay his sleeping foe.

No sorrowful shades of the evil years

Falls in the boy's face of the wood and wild; Vanished are rags and lust and passionate tears; The King is dead, immortal stands the child. EVA GORE-BOOTH.

Sleep

OF all the thoughts of God that are

Borne inward unto soul afar

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if there any is

For gift or grace, surpassing this—
"He giveth his beloved sleep?"

*

*

*

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Psalm VII

LORD, my God, in Thee I put my trust, From them that persecute me save and guard; Lest I be straight confounded in the dust, And they, like raving lions tearing hard, Devour my captive soul in furious lust,

By no deliverer in their conquest marred. O Lord, my God, if I have done this wrong Or if aught wicked be my deeds among;

If I have evil wrought unto my friend,
If I have not preserved alive my foe,
Let then the enemy my body rend

And o'er my spirit the proud victor go.
Let him my fame with base dishonor blend,
And crush my life upon the earth below.
Stand up, O Lord, in anger at my foes,
Who in fierce indignation 'gainst me rose!

Arise, O Lord, and fight on my behalf,
Give judgment for me as Thou hast ordained!
So shall with joy the congregation laugh,
And flock around, in reverence constrained.
Then for this cause lift up Thy mighty staff,
For those whose trust is on Thy power contained!
All men our God shall judge, help me, O Lord!
Heed Thou my righteousness and upright word!

May soon ungodly ways decay and cease,
And Thy protection aid the humble just!
The hearts and inmost veins th' Almighty sees,
For help from God appearing is my lust.
Unto the true of heart He giveth ease,

Nor will permit them to lie in the dust.
A righteous Judge is God, patient and strong,
And each day angered by a sinning throng.

Will they not hear, th' avenging sword He whets,
Doth bend His bow and towers aloft in ire;
The instruments of death to hand He sets,
Against the persecutor's arrows dire.
All fruitless are the plots my foe begets;

Sorrow doth he conceive, of ill the sire.
Graven hath he, and digged a noisome pit;
By him prepared, he falleth into it.

Upon his head shall his bad works return,
His wickedness recoil upon his pate;
In self-inflicted torments shall he burn

And pain of soul that none can satiate.
But I in grateful thanks to God, will turn
And all His righteousness will celebrate...

The name of God our Lord will I extol,

And to the heavens my tongue His fame shall roll. ALFRED S. SCHILLER-SZINESSY.!

My Times Are in Thy Hands!

"I trusted in thee, O Lord; I said, Thou art my God. My times are in Thy hand!"-Ps. xxxi., 14, 15.

Y times are in Thy hand!

MY

I know not what a day

Or e'en an hour may bring to me,
But I am safe while trusting Thee,
Though all things fade away.

All weakness, I

On Him rely

Who fixed the earth and spread the starry sky.

My times are in Thy hand!
Pale poverty or wealth,
Corroding care or calm repose,

Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows,
Sickness or buoyant health,-

Whate'er betide,

If God provide,

'Tis for the best; I wish no lot beside.

My times are in Thy hand!
Should friendship pure illume
And strew my path with fairest flowers,
Or should I spend life's dreary hours
In solitude's dark gloom,-

Thou art a friend,

Till time shall end

Unchangeably the same; in Thee all beauties blend.

My times are in Thy hand!
Many or few my days,

I leave with Thee, this only pray,
That by Thy grace I, every day

Devoting to Thy praise,

May ready be

To welcome Thee

Whene'er Thou com'st to set my spirit free.

CHRISTOPHER NEWMAN HALL.

"The Lord Is My Shepherd, I Shall Not

THE

Want"

'HE Lord my Shepherd is, no want I know,
He leadeth me where tranquil waters flow,
I lie in pastures green.

Yea, though I walk within the gloomy shade
Where Death doth lurk, I will not be afraid,
For on Thy staff I lean.