What glorified form did the Angel of Death
  Assume to her view, that it left the bright trace
Of a jubilant welcome, whose icy breath
  Froze the sunny smile on her fair young face?

Did angels with snow-white wings come down
  And hover about her dying bed? 
Did they bear a white robe, and a starry crown
  To place on their sainted comrade’s head?

Did her gaze rest on valleys and pastures green,
  Where roses in beauty supernal, bloom? 
Where lilies in snowy and golden sheen
  Fill the air with their heavenly, rare perfume?

Did strains of sweet music her senses entrance
  While Earth, with her loved ones, receded in air? 
Did friends who had left it, to greet her, advance
  And joyfully lead her to dwell with them, there?

Did she cross the deep Jordan without any fears
  For all were now calmed on her dear Saviour’s breast? 
On pinions of light did she mount to the spheres
  Where all is contentment, and pleasure, and rest?

All this we may humbly and truly believe,
  For Christ to the Bethany sisters did give
The comforting promise, which all may receive: 
  “He that believeth, though dead, yet shall live.”

DOROTHY MOORE.

A bachelor gray, was Valentine Brown;
He lived in a mansion just out of the town,
    A mansion spacious and grand;
He was wealthy as Vanderbilt, Astor or Tome,
Had money invested abroad and at home,
    And thousands of acres of land.

A friend of his boyhood was Archibald Gray;
And to prove what queer antics Dame Fortune will play
    When she sets about trying to plan,
She heaped all her favors on Valentine, bold,
And always left Archibald out of her fold,
    The harmless, and weak-minded man.

So, while Valentine reigned like a king on his throne,
Poor Archibald ne’er had a home of his own,
    Yet never was known to complain;
Year in and year out, he wandered around,
In mansion and farmhouse a welcome he found
    As long as he chose to remain.

The lilacs and snowballs which guarded the door
Of the ivy-decked cottage of good Parson Moore,
    Were waking from out their long sleep;
For the last month of winter was hastening by,
The last hours of Valentine’s day had drawn nigh,
    When Archibald’s travel-worn feet

Were heard on the door-step; he entered and smiled,
Then sat down and slept like a play-weary child,
    Woke, and told them how long he would stay;
Then slumbered again, while sweet Dorothy Moore,
The motherless daughter, who loved all God’s poor,
    Made him welcome around the tea-tray.

And archly she said as she gave him his tea,
“Where’s the valentine Archy, you promised to me? 
    All maidens expect one to-day;”
Then forgot it; nor noticed when supper was done,
And her father had gone to his study alone,
    That Archie had stolen away.