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DO THEY LOVE IN HEAVEN?

BY S. C. EDGARTON.

"Do they love in heaven ?" the maiden asked: She sat at her pastor's feet,

A girl who oft in the sun had basked,
Till her cheek grew brown with heat.
"Do they love in heaven? I would not be
An angel that could not love:
O, dearer the crown of mortality,

Than any they wear above;

Unless the heart is a changeless thing,
And carries its truth to heaven.
I'd spurn the gift of an angel's wing,
If love were not also given!"

"The heart is not a changeless thing,
Young maiden," the Pere replied;
"There is not strength in an angel's wing
To lift a spirit of pride!

Wouldst carry thither the weight of sin
That burdens thee where thou art?
O, maiden, repeat that thought again,
Ere asking a changeless heart.

A changeless heart! what a dreary thought
To the spirit that burdened lies,

With its chain of woe so heavily fraught,
It struggles in vain to rise!"

"Then they do not love in that brighter land,
Where they walk on gold-fringed stars,—
Where cherubim dance, hand linked in hand,
And tinkle their sweet guitars?

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O, father, why tell me that I must go

To a loveless home on high?

Far sweeter with those that I love below,

In the cold, dark grave to lie!

There roses will sleep, and the birds will sing,

And my lambs will gayly rove;

And I shall be not a desolate thing,

Immortal, with none to love!"

Hush, hush! young maiden; -'with none to love?'

O, cheerless indeed would be

A home below, or a home above,

Where our love could not be free!
Yes, yes; the heart, in all its change,
Adds vigor and depth to love;
And free as a bird that heart will range
Forever and ever above,

To find enough of the thousands there,
To feed with its wasteless store;

Yet ever and ever, as ages wear,

Will gather still more and more!"

THE DOOM OF BABYLON.

BY A. C. THOMAS.

Wo, wo to thee, Babylon! Wo to Chaldea!
The red hand of war is preparing thy shroud!
The blood of the slaughtered still smokes in Judea,
And the grief of thy bondmen, in suffering bowed,
For vengeance appealeth, and crieth aloud.

Thy triumph o'er Salem, the spoil of our nation,
Hath cursed thee with pride and consuming renown!
From the throne of his glory, in just indignation,

In tempest-winged blackness our God will come down,
And thy light will be quenched in his withering frown.

Long, long have we wept by thy wide-rolling waters,
Enslaved and forlorn, and enshrouded in gloom;
But redemption approacheth! the harps of our daughters
Are strung to exult that the pall of the tomb
Is woven to cover proud Babylon's doom!

Yea, thou which art known as of kingdoms the glory, The excellent beauty famed city of gold!

Destruction's swift besom in wrath will sweep o'er thee, As over Gomorrah and Sodom of old

The thunders of vengeance indignantly rolled!

Still shout in thy triumph! thy doom hath been written,
The day of thy downfall thou canst not prolong!
The plague-spot is on thee- thy princes are smitten

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And leprosy marketh thy revelling throng,
As wildly they joy in the feast and the song.

In halls now bedecked with the glare of thy splendor,
The Satyr shall dance, and the wild beast shall prowl;
The dragon shall hiss o'er thy desolate grandeur,
And the cormorant shriek at the wolf's startling howl,
And the bittern respond to the hoot of the owl!

Thy doom hath been uttered! the wrath-tempest lowereth,
Thy gates and thy battlements nought can avail;
Each cedar of Lebanon joyously towereth
To join in our pæan, because of thy wail,
In the clash of the arms that against thee prevail !

And thou, haughty Lucifer! son of the morning!

How fallen from heaven, how fallen art thou! The nations that feared thee, thy sceptre are scorning, O where is thy might and magnificence now? The laurels have withered that bloomed on thy brow!

And Scheol is moved at thy coming to meet thee,
The dead are stirred up from the places beneath,
And the slain of thy sword are uprising to greet thee
With bitter reproach and the taunting breath,
From the dark charnel-house of the gulf of death!

Throned monarch of multitudes! slave of ambition!
The dust of the sepulchre veileth thy pride!
Once feared and obeyed -now the theme of derision!
The warrior who conquered is boldly defied
By the vanquished who lie by the vanquisher's side.

Destroyer of kingdoms! long greatly victorious,

Now peer of the slaughtered and prey to the worm! Unstrung are thy sinews, and, mutely inglorious,

Thou humblest thyself to commingle thy form

With victims crushed down in thy maddening storm!

Shout, daughter of Zion! The heathen oppressor

No longer thy joy and rejoicing shall mar; And Salem of rest shall be long the possessor, For he whom our people contemn and abhor Is broken in pieces, and perished in war!

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