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A wain bound east met the hearse bound west,
The hearse as slim and glossy and still
Spotless the steeds in a satin dress,
From wagon broad and heavy and rude
It made you think of a schooner's sail Mildewed with weather, tattered by gale, Down “by the run" from mizzen and main,That canvas mapped with stipple and stain Of western earth and the prairie rain.
The watch-dog walked in his ribs between
The white-faced boys sat three in a row,
They thought of the one-eyed cabin small,
That planets and prairie almost met,-
They thought of childhood's neighborly hills,
The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps, And Night asleep in their drowsy laps,
Lightening the load of the shouldered wood
They thought,—that pair in the rugged wain,
The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,-
BENJAMIN F. Taylor.
THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR.
I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel-bent beam,
All the hearts are not dead, nor under the sod, That those breaths can blow open to Heaven and
Ah, “Silver Street" leads by a bright golden road, -0, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, But those sweet human psalms in the old-fashioned
choir, To the girl that sang alto,—the girl that sang air ! “Let us sing in His praise,” the good minister said, All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at
“ York," Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that
he read, While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead, And politely picked up the key-note with a fork, And the vicious old viol went growling along, At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song.
I need not a wing,-bid no genii come,
rhyme; Where the stream of the years flowed so noiseless
and narrow, That across it there floated the song of the sparrow; For a sprig of green caraway carries me there, To the old village church and the old village choir, Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung And timed the sweet pulse of the praise as they sung Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun ! You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown, Who followed by scent till he run the tune down,
And dear sister Green, with more goodness than
grace, Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her
place, And where Coronation” exultantly flows, Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her
toes! To the land of the leal they have gone with their
song, Where the choir and the chorus together belong. O, be lifted, ye Gates ! Let me hear them again, Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever Amen!
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.
MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest