CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK.

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul;

Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye if from their further work I be not well released."

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay,
As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way;

For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen,
And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men.

Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye,
A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky,
A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay,
And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay.

Thanksgiving to the Lord of Life! To Him all praises be,
Who from the hands of evil men hath set His handmaid free:
All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid,
Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid!

Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm
Uplift the loud thanksgiving-pour forth the grateful psalm;
Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old,
When of the Lord's good Angel the rescued Peter told.

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong,
The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong.
Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour!

Wo to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour:

But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad,
And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad,
For He who cooled the furnace and smoothed the stormy wave,
And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save.

374

John G. Whittier.

MY PSALM.

ALL as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,

And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track;
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back ;

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good:

That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,

Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial seem at last,

Thro' Memory's sunset air, Like mountain ranges over-past, In purple distance fair:

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west winds play;

And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.

Whittier.

The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
Scarce whispers from the tree;

So gently flows the parting breath,
When good men cease to be.

How beautiful on all the hills,
The crimson light is shed!

'Tis like the peace the Christian gives
To mourners round his bed.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

How mildly on the wandering crowd
The sunset beam is cast!

'Tis like the memory left behind,
When loved ones breathe their last.

And now, above the dews of night,
The yellow star appears;
So faith springs in the heart of those
Whose eyes are bathed in tears.

But soon the morning's happier light
Its glory shall restore,

And eyelids that are sealed in death
Shall wake, to close no more.

William Peabody.

ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP RAVENSCROFT.

THE good old man is gone!

He lies in his saintly rest,

And his labours all are done,

And the work that he loved the best.

The good old man is gone

But the dead in the Lord are blest.

I stood in the holy aisle,

When he spake the solemn word

That bound him, through care and toil,

The servant of the Lord:

And I saw how the depths of his manly soul

By that sacred vow were stirred.

ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP RAVENSCROFT.

And nobly his pledge he kept-
For the truth he stood up alone,
And his spirit never slept,

And his march was ever on!

Oh deeply and long shall his loss be wept, The brave old man that's gone.

There were heralds of the Cross,

By his bed of death that stood,

And heard how he counted all but loss,

For the gain of his Saviour's blood;

And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would.

The good old man is gone!

An apostle's chair is void;

There is dust on his mitre thrown,

And they break his pastoral rod!

And the fold of his love he has left alone,

To account for its care to God.

The brave old man is gone!

With his armour on he fell;

Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn,

When his spirit fled, to tell;

For mortal sufferings, keen and long,

Had no power his heart to quell.

The good old man is gone! He is gone to his saintly rest,

Where no sorrow can be known,

And no trouble can molest;

For his crown of life is won,

And the dead in Christ are blest!

George W. Doane.