-Nay; but fade and wither fast,

Fruit must come at last!

Joy, so true and tender,

Dare you not abide?

Will you spread your pinions,
Must you leave our side?

-Nay; an Angel's shining grace
Waits to fill your place!

F

MY WILL.

INCE I have no lands or houses,
And no hoarded golden store,

What can I leave those who love me

When they see my face no more? Do not smile; I am not jesting,

Though my words sound gay and light,

Listen to me, dearest Alice,

I will make my Will to-night.

First for Mabel,-who will never
Let the dust of future years
Dim the thought of me, but keep it
Brighter still: perhaps with tears.
In whose eyes, whate'er I glance at,
Touch, or praise, will always shine,
Through a strange and sacred radiance,

By Love's Charter, wholly mine;

She will never lend to others

Slenderest link of thought I claim, I will, therefore, to her keeping

Leave my memory and my name.

Bertha will do truer service

To her kind than I have done, So I leave to her young spirit The long Work I have begun. Well! the threads are tangled, broken, And the colours do not blend, She will bend her earnest striving Both to finish and amend :

And, when it is all completed,

Strong with care and rich with skill,

Just because my hands began it,

She will love it better still.

Ruth shall have my dearest token,
The one link I dread to break,

The one duty that I live for,

She, when I am gone, will take.

Sacred is the trust I leave her,

Needing patience, prayer, and tears;

I have striven to fulfil it,

As she knows-these many years.
Sometimes hopeless, faint, and weary,
Yet a blessing shall remain

With the task, and Ruth will prize it
For my many hours of pain.

What must I leave you, my Alice?
Nothing, Love, to do or bear,
Nothing that can dim your blue eyes
With the slightest cloud of care.
I will leave my heart to love you,
With the tender faith of old;
Still to comfort, warm, and light you,
Should your life grow dark or cold.
No one else, my child, can claim it;
Though you find old scars of pain,
They were only wounds, my darling,
There is not, I trust, one stain.

Are my gifts indeed so worthless
Now the slender sum is told?

Well, I know not: years may bless them
With a nobler price than gold.

Am I poor? ah no, most wealthy,

Not in these poor gifts you take, But in the true hearts that tell me

You will keep them for my sake.