Our Father’s house, I know, is broad and grand;
    In it how many, many mansions are! 
    And, far beyond the light of sun or star,
  Four little ones of mine through that fair land
          Are walking hand in hand! 
  Think you I love not, or that I forget
    These of my loins?  Still this world is fair,
  And I am singing while my eyes are wet
    With weeping in this balmy summer air: 
      Yet I’m not homesick, and the children here
      Have need of me, and so my way is clear.

  I would be joyful as my days go by,
    Counting God’s mercies to rue.  He who bore
    Life’s heaviest cross is mine forever-more,
  And I who wait his coming, shall not I
          On his sure word rely? 
  And if sometimes the way be rough and steep,
    Be heavy for the grief he sends to me,
  Or at my waking I would only weep,
    Let me remember these are things to be,
      To work his blessed will until he comes
      To take my hand, and lead me safely home.

ANSON D.F.  RANDOLPH.

* * * * *

SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

  Sit down, sad soul, and count
    The moments flying;
  Come, tell the sweet amount
    That’s lost by sighing! 
  How many smiles?—­a score? 
  Then laugh, and count no more;
    For day is dying!

  Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
    And no more measure
  The flight of time, nor weep
    The loss of leisure;
  But here, by this lone stream,
  Lie down with us, and dream
      Of starry treasure!

  We dream:  do thou the same;
    We love,—­forever;
  We laugh, yet few we shame,—­
    The gentle never. 
  Stay, then, till sorrow dies;
  Then—­hope and happy skies
    Are thine forever!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. (Barry Cornwall.)

* * * * *

IT KINDLES ALL MY SOUL.

    “Urit me Patriae decor.”

      It kindles all my soul,
  My country’s loveliness!  Those starry choirs
      That watch around the pole,
  And the moon’s tender light, and heavenly fires
      Through golden halls that roll. 
  O chorus of the night!  O planets, sworn
      The music of the spheres
  To follow!  Lovely watchers, that think scorn
      To rest till day appears! 
  Me, for celestial homes of glory born,
      Why here, O, why so long,
  Do ye behold an exile from on high? 
      Here, O ye shining throng,
  With lilies spread the mound where I shall lie: 
      Here let me drop my chain,
  And dust to dust returning, cast away
      The trammels that remain;
  The rest of me shall spring to endless day!

From the Latin of CASIMIR OF POLAND.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE.