Where is he? Hark! the friend replies: And then the ruin coldly cast, Where is he? Hark! the marble says, They came, and sorrow'd for the dead; And soon they left me here alone, A nameless and neglected stone." Where is he? Hark! 'tis Heaven replies: That looks beneath the evening's brow, -American. WILLIAM O. PEABODY, 1799-1847. CONTENT. A SONNET. SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content: Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent: The homely house that harbours quiet rest, ROBERT GREENE, 1560-1634. HYMN OF THE REAPERS. OUR Father! to fields that are white, Rejoicing, the sickle we bear, In praises our voices unite To Thee, who hast made them thy care. The seed that was dropp'd in the soil, In One, who, beholding the toil, And ever our faith shall be firm In Thee, who hast nourish'd the root; Whose finger has led up the germ, And finish'd the blade and the fruit. The heads that are heavy with grain Thy blessings shine bright from the hills, And, Lord, 'tis Thy bounty that fills Oh! when, with the sickle in hand, To bind up and bear off Thy sheaves ! May we be as free from the blight, As ripe to be taken away, As that which we gather to-day! Our Father! the heart and the voice HANNAH F. GOULD, 1812 -American. LIVE! MAKE haste, O man, to live, Time hurries past thee like the breeze; Make haste, O man, to live! To breathe, and wake, and sleep, Make haste, O man, to live! Thou hast no time to lose in sloth, Thy day will soon be gone. Make haste, O man, to live! Up, then, with speed, and work; This is no time for thee to sleep— Make haste, O man, to live! The useful, not the great, The thing that never dies; Make haste, O man, to live! The seed, whose leaf and flower, Make haste, O man, to live! Make haste, O man, to live! Make haste, O man, to live! -Hymns of Faith and Hope. |