"What though the vale be dark and drear,"

So ran our Willie's song,

"I'll pass it still, and feel no fear, For Christ will make me strong."

We miss him here, we miss him there;
Nought breaks his deep reposing:
His voice no more in song or prayer,
No more his talk by day we share,
Nor kiss when day is closing.

We call,—he answers not the while;
His thoughts we cannot measure;
"This home is best," he seems to smile,
Our lost yet living treasure.

But none were left to greet me, Tom,

And few were left to know,
Who play'd with us upon that green
Just forty years ago.

The grass was just as green, Tom,
Barefooted boys at play

Were sporting, just as we did then,
With spirits just as gay:

But the master sleeps upon the hill,
Which, coated o'er with snow,
Afforded us a sliding-place

Some forty years ago.

The old school-house is alter'd some,
The benches are replaced

By new ones, very like the same
Our jack-knives had defaced;

But the same old bricks are in the wall,
And the bell swings to and fro,
It's music just the same, dear Tom,
'Twas forty years ago.

The boys were playing some old game
Beneath that same old tree;

I do forget the name just now,

You've play'd the same with me

On that same spot; 'twas play'd with knives,

By throwing so and so;

The loser had a task to do
There forty years ago.

The river's running just as still;

The willows on its side

Are larger than they were, Tom;

The stream appears less wide;
But the grape-vine swing is miss'd now,
Where once we play'd the beau,

And swung our sweethearts-pretty girls —

Just forty years ago.

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill,
Close by the spreading beech,
Is very low; 'twas once so high

That we could scarcely reach ;

And kneeling down to take a drink,
Dear Tom, I started so,

To think how very much I've changed

Since forty years ago.

Near by that spring, upon an elm,

You know, I cut your name;

Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom,
And you did mine the same.

Some heartless wretch has peel'd the bark;

'Twas dying sure, but slow,

Just as she died whose name you cut

There forty years ago.

My lids have long been dry, Tom,
But tears came in my eyes ;
I thought of her I loved so well,
Those early broken ties.

I visited the old church-yard,

And took some flowers to strow
Upon the graves of those we loved
Just forty years ago.

Some are in the church-yard laid,
Some sleep beneath the sea;
But none are left of our old class
Excepting you and me.

And when our time shall come, Tom,
And we are call'd to go,

I hope we'll meet with those we loved
Some forty years ago.

NEARER HOME.

PHOEBE CARY.

ONE Sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er:

I'm nearer my home to-day

Than I ever have been before ;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;

Nearer the great white throne;
Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!

But the waves of that silent sea
Roll dark before my sight,
That brightly the other side
Break on a shore of light.

O, if my mortal feet

Have almost gain'd the brink;

If it be I am nearer home

Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death,

That her feet are firmly set

On the Rock of a living faith!

MICHAEL AND HIS SON.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

NEAR the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had design'd

To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard

The tidings of his melancholy loss,

For this same purpose he had gather❜d up

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd,
And thus the old man spake to him: "My son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me with full heart

I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part

Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good

When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of. - After thou
First camest into the world, as oft befalls

To new-born infants, - thou didst sleep away

Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding bade, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month follow'd month,
And in the open fields my life was pass'd,
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud. The old man grasp'd his hand,
And said, "Nay, do not take it so, I see

That these are things of which I need not speak.
Even to the utmost I have been to thee

A kind and a good father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself

Received at others' hand; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
As all their forefathers had done; and, when
At length their time was come, they were not loth