We miss her in the place of prayer,
And by the hearth-fire's light;
We pause beside her door to hear

Once more her sweet "Good night!'

There seems a shadow on the day
Her smile no longer cheers;
A dimness on the stars of night,
Like eyes that look through tears.

Alone unto our Father's will

One thought hath reconciled; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child.

Fold her, oh Father! in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be

A messenger of love between

Our human hearts and Thee.

Still let her mild rebuking stand
Between us and the wrong,
And her dear memory serve to make
Our faith in goodness strong.

And grant that she who, trembling, here

Distrusted all her powers,

May welcome to her holier home

The well-beloved of ours.

J. G. WHITTIER.

SHE

THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

HE stood outside the gate of heaven, and saw them entering in,

A world-long train of shining ones, all washed in blood from sin.

The hero-martyr in that blaze uplifted his strong eye, And trod firm the re-conquered soil of his nativity!

And he who had despised his life, and laid it down in pain,

Now triumphed in its worthiness, and took it up again.

The holy one, who had met God in desert cave alone, Feared not to stand with brethren around the Father's throne.

They who had done, in darkest night, the deeds of light and flame,

Circled with them about as with a glowing halo came.

And humble souls, who held themselves too dear for earth to buy,

Now passed through the golden gate, to live eternally.

And when into the glory the last of all did go, "Thank God! there is a heaven," she cried, "though mine is endless woe."

The angel of the golden gate said, "Where, then, dost

thou dwell?

And who art thou that enterest not?"-"A soul escaped from hell."

"Who knows to bless with prayer like thine, in hell can never be ;

God's angel could not, if he would, bar up this door from thee."

She left her sin outside the gate, she meekly entered there,

Breathed free the blessed air of heaven, and knew her

native air.

DISCIPLES' HYMN-BOOK.

THE NEW HEAVEN.

L

ET whosoever will, inquire
Of spirit or of seer,

To shape into the heart's desire
The new life's vision clear.

My God, I rather look to Thee
Than to these fancies fond,
And wait, till Thou reveal to me
That fair and far beyond.

I seek not of Thy Eden-land
The forms and hues to know,
What trees in mystic order stand,
What strange, sweet waters flow;

What duties fill the heavenly day,
Or commerce glad and kind,
Or how along each shining way
The bright processions wind.

Oh, joy! to hear with sense new born
The angels' greeting strains,

And sweet to see the first fair morn

Gild the celestial plains.

But sweeter far to trust in Thee

While all is yet unknown,

And through the death-dark cheerily
To walk with Thee alone.

In Thee, my powers, my treasures live,
To Thee, my life must tend;
Giving Thyself, Thou all dost give,
O soul-sufficing friend!

And wherefore should I seek above

Thy City in the sky?

Since firm in faith, and deep in love,
Its broad foundations lie?

Since in a life of peace and prayer,
Nor known on earth, nor praised,
By humblest toil, by ceaseless care,
Its holy towers are raised.

Where faith the soul hath purified,
And penitence hath shriven,
And truth is crowned and glorified,
There only there is Heaven.

ELIZA SCUDDEr, 1855.

PASSAGE FROM "ANDREW RYKMAN'S

SCA

PRAYER.".

CARCELY Hope hath shaped for nie
What the future life may be.

Other lips may well be bold;
Like the publican of old,
I can only urge the plea,
"Lord, be merciful to me!"
Nothing of desert I claim,
Unto me belongeth shame.
Not for me the crowns of gold,
Palms, and harpings, manifold;
Not for erring eye and feet,
Jasper wall and golden street.
What Thou wilt, O Father, give!
All is gain that I receive.
If my voice I may not raise
In the elders' song of praise,
If I may not, sin-defiled,
Claim my birthright as a child,
Suffer it that I to Thee
As an hired servant be;
Let the lowliest task be mine,
Grateful, so the work be Thine;
Let me find the humblest place
In the shadow of Thy grace:
Blest to me were any spot
Where temptation whispers not.