For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers, gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels
Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.
Even now I hear the footsteps,
And their voices far away;
If they call me, I am waiting,
Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Then from out the gathered darkness,
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul shall gladly

Tread its pathway to the skies.

ANONYMOUS.

The Burial of Moses.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; bnt no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." DEUT. xxxiv: 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

21*

For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun,

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves,So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lo! when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill-side for his pall,

To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave,—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again,-O wondrous thought! –

Before the judgment day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace,—
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

Milton's Prayer of Patience.

I AM old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,

Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong:

I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme, to Thee.

O merciful One!

When men are farthest, then art Thou most near; When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun, Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,-
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee,

I recognize Thy purpose, clearly shown;
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself-Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear;

This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred,-here

Can come no evil thing.

Oh, I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless hand
Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go,

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,

When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture,—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.

Curfew Must not Ring To-night.

ENGLAND S Sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad

day;

And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden

fair,

He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair;

He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."