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"I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE."
AMONG SO many, can He care?
Can special love be everywhere?
A myriad homes, -a myriad ways, -
And God's eye over every place.

Over; but in? The world is full;
A grand omnipotence must rule;
But is there life that doth abide
With mine own living, side by side?

So many, and so wide abroad:
Can any heart have all of God?
From the great spaces, vague and dim,
May one small household gather Him?

I asked: my soul bethought of this:-
In just that very place of his
Where He hath put and keepeth you,
God hath no other thing to do!

We know she is safe on the farther side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart;

They cross the stream, and are gone for aye;

We may not sunder the veil apart,

That hides from our vision the gates

Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out of sight.

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch

his flight;

The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint;

And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint.

there

Firing the floor with his inverted torch;

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron with monoto

nous tread,

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien,

Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow, - he had walked with her,

Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen

crust;

And in the dead leaves still he heard the stir

Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,

Her country summoned and she gave her all;

And twice War bowed to her his sable plume,

Regave the swords to rust upon her wall.

Regave the swords, but not the hand that drew

And struck for Liberty its dying blow, Nor him who, to his sire and country true, Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel

went on,

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.

At last the thread was snapped: her head was bowed;

Life dropt the distaff through his hands

serene;

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,

While death and winter closed the autumn scene.

JEAN INGELOW.

I sat and spun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne

eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soon be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Comme uppe Whitefoot, come uppe
Lightfoot,

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe
Lightfoot,

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking-shed."

LINCOLNSHIRE.

Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong; And all the aire it seemeth me Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene.
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds where their sedges are
Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,

And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The Brides of Mavis Enderby.'