For only one short hour.

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief?

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

EVELYN HOPE.

(ROBERT BROWNING.)

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!

Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think:

The shutters are shut, no light may pass

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough, and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,-
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?

What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew,— And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red—
And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me— And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!

My heart seemed full as it could hold

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep

See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

(LEIGH HUNT.)

"Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,

'What writest thou?' The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou; Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

"The angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had bless'dAnd, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest."

THE NATION'S DEAD.

Four hundred thousand men
The brave-the good-the true,
In tangled wood, in mountain glen,
On battle plain, in prison pen,
Lie dead for me and you!

Four hundred thousand of the brave
Have made our ransomed soil their grave,
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

In many a fevered swamp,
By many a black bayou,

In many a cold and frozen camp,
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp,
And died for me and you!

From Western plain to ocean tide
Are stretched the graves of those who died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

On many a bloody plain

Their ready swords they drew,

And poured their life-blood, like the rain,
A home-a heritage to gain,

To gain for me and you!

Our brothers mustered by our side;

They marched, they fought, and bravely died For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

Up many a fortress wall

They charged-those boys in blue-
'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball;
The bravest were the first to fall!
To fall for me and you!

These noble men-the nation's pride-
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you!
Good friend, for me and you!

In treason's prison-hold

Their martyr spirits grew
To stature like the saints of old,
While amid agonies untold,

They starved for me and you!

The good, the patient and the tried,
Four hundred thousand men have died
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

A debt we ne'er can pay

To them is justly due,

And to the nation's latest day
Our children's children still shall say,
"They died for me and you!"
Four hundred thousand of the brave
Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave
For me and you!

Good friend, for me and you!

A PSALM FROM LIFE.

(LONGFELLOW.)

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem,

Life is real life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day,

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating,
Funeral marches to the grave.