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In fallow thoughts to take thine ease,
Nor envy others their degrees,
But just to live, and breathe, and rest,
And deem thyself supremely blest.
Sweet loiterer thou-O Indolence,
Becalmed guest of soul and sense!

I crown thee as my happy chance,
Thou easer of all circumstance.

FAITH.

ALONE she bears the mystic flame,-
A torch that like a star doth gleam;
A leader, she, without a name;
Alone she bears the mystic flame.

A darkness falls across her way;

Her face is wrapt as in a dream. Perchance she murmurs, "Where is day?"

She walks afar;-none other near,

Yet by her side speed silent feet; Strange voices fall on her fine ear.

She leads the way that man shall tread,Whose centuries time the ceaseless beat Of living following the dead;

She leads the way that man shall tread.

INFINITO.

COULD I but grasp the vision, make it mine,
In one full masterly embrace possess
The splendor of my dream, its joy enshrine,
And hold it as some trophy-crown, to bless
With perfect calm and peace the conquest won;
Or could I clear the mist, and fairly face
The high beatitudes of radiant morn,

That reach through infinite degrees of space; What then-ah, what? The heart would sigh for

more;

The longings of a great unrest would send Swift-winged messengers far on before;

Such glory undefined could only lend

A depth to height, a sadness to desire,-
A voice forever calling, "Come up higher."

NIGHT WATCHES.

ONLY the shrouding gloom can unfold
The skyey chart with its worlds of gold;
Only the darkness can make the night
A fathomless miracle of light!

Only the shadow of night in the heart
Reveals to the soul the heavenly chart;

Only the darkness that falls at our feet
Can make the meaning of God complete!

H

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

EZEKIAH, BUTTERWORTH was born in Warren, R. I., on December 22, 1839. The family were among the founders of Rhode Island; liberal Baptists of the Roger Williams views. In early life he began to contribute to the leading papers, among them the New York Independent. In 1870 he became connected with the Youth's Companion. He wrote "Zig-Zag Journeys," twelve volumes, for a Boston publishing firm, which are stories of places, of which some 250,000 copies have been sold. He wrote, in 1875, the "Story of the Hymns" for the American Tract Society, and won for it the George Wood Gold Medal. He has since prepared a companion volume, called "The Story of the Tunes." He has prepared several cantatas for George F. Root's music, and one of these, "Under the Palms," has had a great popularity in England. He has written for the Atlantic Monthly, Harper's publications, the Christian Union, and other periodicals. Two volumes of his poems have been published, "Poems for Christmas, Easter and New Year's," and "Songs of History." Mr. Butterworth is one of the editors of the Youth's Companion, and one of the hardest workers. He owns an old farm on the famous Mt. Hope Lands, Bristol, R. I., and has a cottage at Belleview, Fla. C. W. M.

LINCOLN'S LAST DREAM.

(President Lincoln, just before his assassination, is said to have remarked to Mrs. Lincoln, "When my cares of State are over, I wish to go to Palestine.")

I.

APRIL flowers were in the hollows; in the air were April bells,

And the wings of purple swallows rested on the battle shells.

From the war's long scene of horror now the nation found release;

All the day the old war bugles blew the blessed notes of peace.

"Thwart the twilight's damask curtains
Fell the night upon the land,
Like God's smile of benediction
Shadowed faintly by his hand.

In the twilight, in the dusklight, in the starlight, everywhere,

Banners waved like gardened flowers in the palpitating air.

II.

In Art's temple there were greetings, gentle hurryings of feet,

And triumphant strains of music rose amid the numbers sweet.

Soldiers gathered, heroes gathered, women beautiful were there:

Will he come, the land's Beloved, there to rest an hour from care?

Will he come who for the people

Long the cross of pain has borne,-
Prayed in silence, wept in silence,

Held the hand of God alone?

Will he share the hour of triumph, now his mighty work is done?

Here receive the people's plaudits, now the victory is won?

III.

O'er thy dimpled waves, Potomac, softly now the moonbeams creep;

O'er far Arlington's green meadows, where the brave forever sleep.

'Tis Good Friday; bells are tolling, bells of chapel beat the air

On thy quiet waves, Potomac; Arlington, serene and fair.

And he comes, the nation's hero,

From the White House, worn with care;
Hears the name of "Lincoln!” ringing
In the thronged streets, everywhere;

Hears the bells,-what memories bringing to his long-uplifted heart!

Hears the plaudits of the people as he gains the Hall of Art.

But it was another vision that had calmed his brow of care:

Was it Tabor glowed before him,
Carmel in the evening sun;

Faith's strong armies grandly marching

Through the vale of Esdralon;

Or the sun-lit Horns of Huttim on the shores of Galilee,

Where the Sermon of the Blessed made the world forever free?

VI.

Now the breath of light applauses rose the templed arches through,

Stirred the folds of silken banners, mingled red and white and blue;

But the Dreamer seemed to heed not: rose the past his eye before,

Armies guarding the Potomac, flashing through the Shenandoah;

Gathering armies, darkening navies;
Heroes marching forth to die;
Chickamauga, Chattanooga,

And the Battle of the Sky;

Silent prayers to free the bondmen in the ordeal of

fire,

And God's angel's sword uplifted to fulfill his heart's desire.

VII.

Thought he of the streets of Richmond on the late triumphant day

When the swords of vanquished leaders at his feet surrendered lay;

When, amid the sweet bells ringing, all the sable multitudes

Shouted forth the name of "Lincoln!" like a rushing of the floods;

Thought of all his heart had suffered;
All his struggles and renown;
Dreaming not that just before him

Lifted was the martyr's crown;

Seeing not the dark form stealing through the music-haunted air;

Knowing not that mid the triumph the betrayer's form was there.

VIII.

Flash! what scymetar of fire lit the flag with lurid light?

Hush! what means that shuddering silence, what that woman's shriek of fright? Puff of smoke! the call bell ringing! why has stopped the airy play?

Why the fixed looks of the players that a moment past were gay?

395

Why the murmurings, strange, uncertain,
Why do faces turn so white,
Why descends the affrighted curtain

Like a white cloud 'thwart the sight? Why the brute cries? why the tumult? Has Death found the Hall of Art?

Hush! what say those quivering whispers, turning into stone each heart?

IX.

April morning; flags are blowing; 'thwart each flag a sable bar.

Dead, the leader of the people! dead, the world's great commoner.

Bells on the Potomac tolling; tolling by the Sangamon;

Tolling from the broad Atlantic to the Ocean of the Sun.

Friend and foe clasp hands in silence,

Listen to the low prayers said,
Hear the people's benedictions,

Hear the nations praise the dead.

Lovely land of Palestina! he thy shores will never

see,

But, his dream fulfilled, he follows Him who walked in Galilee.

IN BAY CHALEUR.

THE birds no more in dooryard trees are singing,
The purple swallows all have left the eaves,
And 'thwart the sky the broken clouds are wing-
ing,

Shading the land-slopes, bright with harvestsheaves.

Old Hannah waits her sailor-boy returning,

His fair young brow to-day she hopes to bless; But sees the red sun on the hill-tops burning, The flying cloud, the wild, cold gloominess Of Bay Chaleur.

The silver crown has touched her forehead lightly Since last his hand was laid upon her hair;

The golden crown will touch her brow more lightly

Ere he again shall print his kisses there.
The night comes on, the village sinks in slumber,
The rounded moon illumes the water's rim;
Each evening hour she hears the old clock number,
But brings the evening no return to him
To Bay Chaleur.

She heard low murmurs in the sandy reaches,
And knew the sea no longer was at rest;
The black clouds scudded o'er the level beaches,
And barred the moonlight on the ocean's breast.

The night wore on, and grew the shadows longer; Far in the distance of the silvered seas

Tides lapped the rocks, and blew the night-wind stronger,

Bending the pines and stripping bare the trees
Round Bay Chaleur.

Then Alice came; on Hannah's breast reclining,
She heard the leaves' swift whistling in the breeze,
And, through the lattice, saw the moon declining
In the deep shadows of the rainy seas.
The fire burned warm,-upon the hearth was sleep-
ing

The faithful dog that used his steps to follow.
"Tis almost midnight," whispered Alice, weeping,
While blew the winds more drearily and hollow
O'er Bay Chaleur.

No organ stands beneath a bust of Pallas,
No painted Marius to the ruin clings,
No Ganymede, borne up from airy Hellas,

Looks through the darkness, 'neath the eagle's wings.

But the sweet pictures from the shadowed ceiling
Reflect the firelight near old Hannah's chair,-
One a fair girl, with features full of feeling,
And one a boy, a fisher young and fair,
Of Bay Chaleur.

The boy returns with humble presents laden,
For on the morrow is his wedding morn;
To the old church he hopes to lead the maiden
Whose head now rests his mother's breast

upon.

Now Hannah droops her cheek, the maiden presses,

"He will return when comes the morning hours, And he will greet thee with his fond caresses,

And thou shalt meet him diademed with flowers." Sweet Bay Chaleur.

Gray was the morning, but a light more tender Parted at last the storm-cloud's lingering

glooms;

The sun looked forth in mellowness and splendor,
Drying the leaves amid the gentian blooms.
And wrecks came drifting to the sandy reaches,
As inward rolled the tide with sullen roar;
The fishers wandered o'er the sea-washed beaches,
And gathered fragments as they reached the
shore

Of Bay Chaleur.

Then Alice, with the village maidens roaming Upon the beaches where the breakers swirl, Espied a fragment 'mid the waters foaming, And found a casket overlaid with pearl.