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THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

“Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; "Have naught but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.”

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves ;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowrets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,


Where He was once a child.

'They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

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THIS is a curl of our poor "Splendid's" hair!
A sunny burst of rare and ripe young gold—
A ring of sinless gold that weds two worlds!
Our one thing left with her dear life in it.
Poor Misers! o'er it secretly we sum
Our little savings hoarded up in heaven,—
Our rich love-thoughts heart-hid to doat upon,-
And glimpse our lost heaven in a flood of tears.

We stood at midnight in the Presence dread.
At midnight, when men die, we strove with Death
To wrench our jewel from his grasping hand.
Ere the soul loosed from its last ledge of life,
Her little face peered round with anxious eyes;
Then, seeing all the old faces, dropped content.

The mystery dilated in her look,

Which, on the darkening death-ground, faintly caught The likeness of the angel shining near.

Her passing soul flashed back a glimpse of bliss.

A crown of conquest bound her baby-brow;

Her little hands could take the heirdom large;

And all her childhood's vagrant royalty

Sat staid and calm in some eternal throne.

Love's kiss is sweet, but Death's doth make immortal.

And there our darling lay in coffined calm,
Dressed for the grave in raiment like the snow;

And o'er her flowed the white eternal peace :


The breathing miracle into silence passed:

Never to stretch wee hands, with her dear smile :
As soft as light-fall on unfolding flowers;
Never to wake us crying in the night:
Our little hindering thing for ever gone,
In tearful quiet now we might toil on.
All dim the living lustres motion makes!
No life-dew in the sweet cups of her eyes!
Naught there of our poor "Splendid" but her brow.

The world went lightly by and heeded not
Our death-white windows blinded to the sun-
The hearts that ached within-the measureless loss-
The idol broken-our first tryst with death!

O Life, how strange thy face behind the veil !
And stranger still will thy strange mystery seem,
When we awake in death and tell our dream.



"A noble army-men and boys,
The matron and the maid,

Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,

In robes of light arrayed.

They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,

Through peril, toil, and pain!

O God! to us may grace be given

To follow in their train."


IN the noble army of Martyrs we find enrolled the names not only of strong men, but of timid and gentle women, who out of weakness were made strong," and of youths and maidens who, overcoming their childish fears, arose to a height of heroic fortitude


which filled their persecutors with wonder.

Amongst these Cyril, who "witnessed a good confession" in the persecution under Valerian (A. D. 257), claims a place.

His father was an idolater. Incensed by the boy's refusal to join in the sacrifices, he treated him with the utmost cruelty and turned him out of doors. The governor, hearing of this, ordered


Cyril to be brought before him. At first he tried the effect of kindness. "My child," he said, "abandon these follies, and I will not only pardon you, but persuade your father to receive you again."

"I rejoice in suffering reproaches for what I have done," said the fearless boy; "God has not cast me off. He will still receive

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