In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride,

And laid them at his Master's feet.

His rest is by the storm-swept waves
Whom life's wild tempests roughly
tried,
Whose heart was like the streaming caves
Of ocean, throbbing at his side.

Death's cold white hand is like the snow

Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.

In vain the envious tongue upbraids;
His name a nation's heart shall keep
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep!

1

Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebble's edge,

number?

Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,

But for the slanting stone,

To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid

Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will

Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends,

From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee, One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea!

THE PROMISE.

Nor charity we ask,

Nor yet thy gift refuse;

Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose.

The little-heeded toy

That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold.

Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide,