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Cowper's Grave.

T is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying,;

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying;

Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence languish !

Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing;

O Christians! at your cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging!

O men! this man in brotherhood, your weary paths beguiling,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while you were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,

How discord on the music fell, and darkness on

the glory,

And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted;

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high

vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker

adoration;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise, of wise or good forsaken;

Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses,

And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses;

That turns his fevered eyes around-"My mother! where's my mother?"

As if such tender words and looks could come from any other!

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, he sees her bending o'er him;

Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him!—

Thus woke the poet from the dream the lifelong fever gave him,

Beneath those deep pathetic eyes, which closed in death to save him!

Thus? oh not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,

Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking,

Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted,

But felt those eyes alone, and knew "my Saviour, not deserted!"

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested

Upon the victim's hidden face, no love was manifested?

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops averted?

What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather;

And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and Father;

Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry His universe hath shaken;

It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken."

It went up from the Holy's lips amid His lost

creation,

That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation;

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's fruition,

And I, on Cowper's grave, might see his rapture

in a vision.

E. B. Browning.

T

Love.

OR the love of the true-hearted,
Thanks we give Thee, Lord of love;
Truest treasure Thou hast given,

Fairest link 'twixt earth and heaven,
Sunshine from above.

May this love that Thou hast given,
Light, and hope, and joy to be;
Filling all our lives with meaning,
Teaching truest strength in leaning,
Draw us nearer Thee.

For the love Thou sendest shows us
How that stronger love must glow,

By its very depth revealing

Other depths of deeper feeling

God alone can know.

Teaching us of love unuttered,
Ever springing, ever new,

Whose unfathomed depth and beauty
Cheers our sorrows, gilds our duty,
Perfect, constant, true.

F. L.

The Death of the Sagamore.

HE servant of God is on his way
From Boston's beautiful shore;
The boat skims light o'er the silvery bay,
The sleeping waters awake and play
At the touch of the splashing oar.

The boat is fast, and over the sod

Of the neighbouring wood he hies,
Through moor and thicket his path is trod;
And he hastens to speak of the living God
In the ear of the man who dies.

The purpose that fills his soul is great
As the heart of man may know;
Vast as eternity, strong as the gate
Which the spirit must pass to a changeless state,

To enter on bliss or woe.

Where Romney's forest is high and dark

The eagle lowers her wing

O'er him who once had made her his mark
For the Sagamore, on his bed of bark,
Is a perishing, powerless thing.

On the door of the wigwam hang the bow,
The antlers and beavers' skin,

But he who bore them is faint and low,
For death has given the fatal blow,

And a monarch expires within.

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