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, Than any they wear above; Unless the heart is a changeless thing, "The heart is not a changeless thing, Wouldst carry thither the weight of sin A changeless heart! what a dreary thought With its chain of woe so heavily fraught, "Then they do not love in that brighter land, 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! To find enough of the thousands there, 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! Thy triumph o'er Salem, the spoil of our nation, In tempest-winged blackness our God will come down, Long, long have we wept by thy wide-rolling waters, 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, And leprosy marketh thy revelling throng, In halls now bedecked with the glare of thy splendor, Thy doom hath been uttered! the wrath-tempest lowereth, 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, Throned monarch of multitudes! slave of ambition! 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! |