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WHEN?

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

From The Independent.

IF I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sun
Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
For any one,
All the fight fought, all the short journey through,
What should I do?

I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on,
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;
But rise and move and love and smile and pray
For one more day.

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear
Which hearkens ever, "Lord, within Thy keeping
How should I fear?
And, when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still,
Do thou Thy will!"

I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender
My soul would lie
All the night long; and when the morning splendor
I think that I could smile-could calmly say,
"It is His day."

But, if a wondrous hand, from the blue younger
Held out the scroll
On which my life was
writ, and I with wonder
Beheld unroll
To a long century's end its mystic clew,
What should I do?

What could I do, oh! blessed Guide and Master,
Other than this:
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
nor hear to miss
The road, although so very long it be,
While led by Thee?

Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
Although unseen,
Through thorns, through flowers, whether tho tem-
pest hide Thee.
Or heavens serene,
Assured Thy faithfulness cannoy betray,
Thy love decay.

I may not know, my God, no hand revealeth
Thy counsels wise;
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth;
No voice replies
To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
And it is well.

Let me keep on abiding and undearing
Thy will always,
Through a long century's ripening fruition,
Or a short day's
Thon canst not come too soon; and I can wait
If thou come late.

Sorrow.

Upon my lips she laid her touch divine,
And merry speech and careless laughter died;
She fixed her melancholy eyes on mine,
And would not be denied.

I saw the west wind loose his cloudlets white,
In flock, careering through the Ayril sky;
I could not sing, though joy was at its height,
For she stood silent by.

I watched the lovely evening fade away-
A mist was lightly drawn across the stars;
She broke my quiet dream-I heard her say,
"Behold your prison-bars!

Earth's gladness shall not satisfy your soul-
This beauty of the world in which you live;
The crowning grace that sanctifies the whole,
That I alone can give."

I heard, and shrank away from her afraid;
But still she help me and would still abide.
Youth's bounding pulses slackened and obeyed,
With slowly ebbing tide.

"Look thou beyond the evening sky," she said,
"Beyong the changing splendors of the day;
Accept the pain, the weariness, the dread,
Accept, and bid me stay!"

I turned and clasped her close with sudden strength
And slowly, sweetly I became aware
Within my arms God's angel stood, at length,
White-robed and calm and fair.

And now I look beyond the evening star,
Beyond the changing splendors of the day,
knowing th epain He sends more precious far,
More beautiful, than they.

-Atlantic for May.

Matthew Henry says that "the
woman was made of a rib out of the side of
Adam; not made out of his head, to top him;
not out of his feet, to be trampled upon by
him; but out of his side, to be equal with
him; under his arm, to be protected, and near
his heart, to be beloved." T.J.S.

ADDRESS TO OLNEY GRANGE
By Sarah B. Stabler
Sandy Spring, MD., March 15, 1875

To the Editors of the American:

The inclosed address was written by a much re-
spected member of the Society of Friends, now in
her 74th year, and was printed by Olney Grange for
the use of its members. Not being a member of the
grange, but recognizing the excellent sentiments
therin contained, I sent it to the widely read
American for publication.

ADDRESS.

"What can we reason but from what we know?" - Pope.

What can we write, who stand without the pale,
At the behest of those behind the veil?
How shall we venture in the dark alone,
And all unguided, groupe in paths unknown?
Or shall we write with "if," as saving clause,
and thus address you, after thoughtful pause?
If ye assemble for the good of man-
All human-kind, and not alone a clan;
If ye remember those who pine in want,
With life's most common comforts few and scant,
If ye with loving hearts, visit the lone,
And in their day's declining, cheer them on,
If ye forgive the enemy who smites,
Do good to him who has infringed your rights,
Are lenient to small errors-cover still
With Charity's fair mantle ever ill;
If idle gossip whisper in your ear;
And you have courage to refuse to hear,
Or, if ye find harsh censure on your tongue,
And check it, ere to wound, it forth hath sprung;
If ye essay to heal with gentle power
Wounds of the heart- our human nature's dower,
And if ye unto fellow-men shall do
Only what you would have them do to you,
Then have you joined to do a sacred task,
And wherefore brothers, do we year a mask?
This is a simple query of the mind-
We seek no answer; it would be unkind
To judge that secret counsels ne'er are wise,
E'en Heaven's blessings oft' come in disguise.
Ye may have found some evil in our land
Which, to remove, required a "master" hand;
We nothing know-but bid you all good speed
If ye brothers true, in word and deed.
If those whom once as strangers you passed by
Received the greeting of the friendly eye;
If walls of prejudice before you fall,
And you can give the friendly hand to all.
Again, good speed! for what should men divide
Whose veins are filled with the same purple tide?
May that fraternal love, you cherish here
Reach its full measure, in a higher sphere.

S. B. Stabler.

The Two Glasses

There sat two glasses filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim,
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to the pale brother:
"Let us tell the tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet and revel and mirth,
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might,
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down;
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made an arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail;
I have made good ships go down at sea
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, 'Behold how great you be !
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall,
For your might and power are over all.'
Ho ! ho ! pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water glass; "I cannot boast
Of a King dethroned or a murdered host,
But I can tell of a heart once sad
By my crystal drops made light and glad.
Of thirsts I've quenched, of brows I've laved;
Of hands I've cooled and souls I've saved;
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Flowed in the river and played in the fountain,
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky;
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood, debased by you,
That I lifted and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid !
I set the chained wine-captive free.
And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine and paler brother,
As they sat together filled to the brim,
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.

A CLOSED BOOK

BY MARGARET VELEY.

I read it long ago, and as I read,
A world of wonder rose before my eyes
And widened into vastness, dimly spread
'Neath solemn skies.

Beyond the page my emulous desire
Divined the marvels of unwritten scenes--
I was ambitious, by the school-room fire,
Just in my teens !

Now, though the book has faded out of mind,
Though all that dreamy pageant I forget,
Its shadow lingers, vast and undefined,
And haunts me yet.

The far-off glory dies in pallid gleams--
Cannot a yearning sigh the flame restore?
Cannot I read again, and dream those dreams
Once more--Once more?

Never. The child has passed away, the book
Is closed, and 'mid my childish memories laid,
With all its magic in it. I would look,
But am afraid.

Men do not name it 'mid immortal works,
And laggard fame is slow to find it out.
Perhaps. And yet within my soul there larks
Something of doubt.

How if the visions whose dim figures thickened
Round me, and thronged my yet [nnpeopied?] air--
How if the fear, whereat my pulses quickened,
Should not be there?

How if the shadow, awful in its gloom,
Were dwarfted and shriveled when the daylight dawned--
How if I smiled above the empty tomb-
How if I yawned?

How if I marveled at myself, and him
I honored once? Surely the Past might rise
In human shape, and look at me with dim,
Reproachful eyes.

Because for his enchantment long ago
I had no thanks to give in later days--
Oh, dreams that flickered in the firelight glow,
Be his your praise !

He gave my fancy wings, and in its flight,
No fault, no failure, could it stoop to note;
Perhaps I read the book he meant to write,
Not that he wrote.

Why should the knowledge that in awe began
Be ended now in laughter barbed with pain?
And why take back the faith that never can
Be given again?

No, he shall keep it! Do not draw the curtain,
Let my dim wonder be a wonder still-
I will not read it-- I am almost certain
I never will !

-Spectator.

Better Things.

Better the smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing
wine;
Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond
shine.

Better the love of gentle heart, than beauty's favors
proud;
Better the rose's living speed, than roses in a crowd.

Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all
day;
Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by
the way.

Better be fed by mother's hand, than eat alone at
will;
Better to trust in good, than say: "My goods my
storehouse fill."

Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to
abound;
Better to teach a child, then toil in perfection's
round.

Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening
State;
Better to suspect that thou art proud, than be sure
that thou art great.

Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's
event;
Better the "Well done!" at the last, than the air with
shouting rent.

Better to have a quiet grief, than a hurrying delight;
Better the twilight of the dawn, than the noonday
burning bright.

Better a death when work is done, than earth's most
favored birth;
Better a child in God's greatest house, than the kind of
all the earth. George McDonald.

Beautiful Fancies.

"Whence come your beautiful fancies?
From the earth or the heavens above?"
"From neither !" the poet replied; "they stream
From the eyes of the woman I love!
They are far more thoughts in her sunny glance
Than stars in the midnight skies!"
"You're a fool!" said his friend. "Perhaps I am;
Whats the good of being wise?
I would not change this folly of mine,
No, not for an empire's prize." Belgravia.