A SONG OF HOME.

EMILY C. H. MILLER.

LL day in the deepening sunlight
The tops of the mountain glow,

All night the white waves of the moonlight
Roll down to the valleys below.

I sit by my window and listen

To the voice of the whispering breeze,
As it bears me the breath of the clover,
And the murmurous hum of the bees.

But away over meadow and upland,

A thousand swift fancies have flown,
To see how around the old homestead
The glory of summer has shone.

I see it again in my dreaming;

The twilight is heavy and deep,
And across the green fields of the barley
The night-winds come wooing to sleep.

I can hear through the hush how the water
Goes chiming along by the mill,

With a tune that begins at the sunset,

A SONG OF HOME.

When the sound of the grinding is still.

O sweet as a mother's low singing

To the baby asleep on her breast, Rings out that soft song of the water,

When the twilight drops down from the west!

How white through the boughs of the maple
Gleams out the low cottage I love,

With the moonlight asleep on the threshold,
And the stars keeping vigils above!

All hushed! but I know by the hearth stone
They knelt at the nightfall to pray,
And remembered with fond benediction
The loved who have wandered away.

And one hath no need of their praying,
For once, when the summer was bright,
She passed through the valley of shadow
To the gates of the city of light.

And kneeling alone with our sorrow-
Alone on that sorrowful shore,

We wept when we thought how her footsteps
Would never come back any more.

For the brows that eternity crowneth

May never be saddened by woe,

And the lips that have sung with the angels
Are silent forever below.

66
"WHEN THE SONG'S GONE."

["When the song's gone out of your life, you can't start another while it's a-ringing in your ears, but it's best to have a bit of silence, and out o' that maybe a psalm'll come by-and-by."-Edward Garrett.]

HEN the song's gone out of your life,

That you thought would last to the end-
That first sweet song of the heart,

That no after days can lend

The song of the birds to the trees,

The song of the wind to the flowers,
The song that the heart sings low to itself
When it wakes in life's morning hours.

"You can start no other song,"

Not even a tremulous note
Will falter forth on the empty air,

It dies in your aching throat.

It is all in vain that you try,

For the spirit of song has fled-

The nightingale sings no more to the rose
When the beautiful flower is dead.

So let silence softly fall

On the bruised heart's quivering strings;
Perhaps from the loss of all

You may learn the song that the seraph sings;

A grand and glorious psalm

That will tremble, and rise and thrill, And fill your breast with its grateful rest, And its lonely yearnings still.