ever to keep, for the
          dead I loved so well. 
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—­and this for his
          dear sake,
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

WALT WHITMAN.

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.

If I should die to-night,
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair. 
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress—­
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften, in the old familiar way;
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? 
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow—­
The way is lonely; let me feel them now. 
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! 
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

BELLE E. SMITH.

AWAKENING.

Down to the borders of the silent land
  He goes with halting feet;
He dares not trust; he cannot understand
  The blessedness complete
That waits for God’s beloved at his right hand.

He dreads to see God’s face, for though the pure
  Beholding him are blest,
Yet in his sight no evil can endure;
  And still with fear oppressed
He looks within and cries, “Who can be sure?”

The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,
  The palaces so fair,
The seraphs singing in the shining seats,
  The glory everywhere,—­
And to his soul he solemnly repeats

The visions of the Book.  “Alas!” he cries,
  “That world is all too grand;
Among those splendors and those majesties
  I would not dare to stand;
For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!”

Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood
  Through service and through pain;
The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;
  Sure, dying must be gain
To one who living hath done what he could.