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God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow!

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RIVER! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest

In the bosom of the sea !

Four long years of mingled feeling,

Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing

Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!

Many a lesson, deep and long; Thou hast been a generous giver;

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness

Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,

When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,

And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee

Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,

And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,

And have made thy margin dear.

More than this;—thy name reminds me

Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me

Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers !

How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

'Tis for this, thou Silent River!

That my spirit leans to thee; Thou hast been a generous giver,

Take this idle song from me.


Blind Bartimeus at the gates
Of Jericho in darkness waits;
He hears the crowd ;-he hears a breath
Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!”
And calls, in tones of agony,
Incoī, élénoór ue !

The thronging multitudes increase ;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ;
Until they say, “He calleth thee!”
Odpoce, yelpai, suvei ge!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”
And he replies, “O give me light !
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!"
And Jesus answers, "Yaya :
'H niotic gov géowké oe!

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Filled is Life's goblet to the brim;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chaunt a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers, —no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen,
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is filled with waters, that upstart,
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,

And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,

Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless mood; And gladiators, fierce and rude,

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