Hushed is now the convent bell, Dies away. Father! in the forest dim, Be my stay! In the low and shivering thrill Falls the echoing dust around. O'er the wild, Oh! be thou the lone one's aid. Save thy child! Many a swift and sounding plume Homeward through the boding gloom, O'er my way hath flitted fast, Since the farewell sunbeam passed From the chestnut's ruddy bark, Shield the homeless; midst the waste, In his distant cradle nest, Now my babe is laid to rest; Beautiful his slumber seems, Father! guard that household bower,- Back through thine all-guiding power, Lead me there! Darker, wilder, grows the night; All my pathway open lies, By thy Son, who knew distress In the lonely wilderness, Where no roof to that blest head Shelter gave,— Father! through the time of dread, Save! oh, save! HOURS OF NIGHT. BYRON W. KING. O heavenly night! When far and deep The earth is wrapped in balmy sleep, And stars their burning watches keep O'er palace proud and lowly cot; When all the weary hearts of men Breathe in the strength of life again And all the throes of racking pain, And toil and labor are forgot. O hours of night! How softly fall The memories of life's cruel past! And that pure Peace for which we pray And standing with her wings out-spread She poureth balm on heart and head And heals the wasting form with sleep. When all the soul's wild haunting fears, And all the burdens from the years That crowd our hearts and move our tears O rest and rapture of the soul! To be from all the heart has known, He knows not life, who has not found Who has not come from tears and pain Of holier deeds and higher thought. And when shall fall that solemn Sleep, Be welcome shadows, as they fall! And drops a veil on earth and woe! Close then the eyes, and o'er the breast Fold the dumb hands ye oft have pressed, And calmly whisper, "Let him rest In sleep that cometh from his God! For all his weary work is done, And all the toilsome race is run, From rising unto setting sun Life's rugged journey he has trod!" THE ORCHARD TREE. BYRON W. KING. From under the spreading branches Of a brave old orchard tree Rang out the merry voices. Of childish mirth and glee! Four cheeks that were red and dimpled, The sun sank to his rest, And cloud-built castle and turret Ere he closed the pillared gate, Together they played in the twilight, Two cousins, wee Jennie and Kate. They were playing they were "big folk," And gravely, with look and tone, Each was telling a fancied story Of the trials she called her own. Till Kate, with a merry twinkle, Called her cousin "grand-mother Jane;" And a peal of merriest laughter, Rang forth again and again. They laughed till the evening shadows, And they found themselves in the darkness, And the light and the day and the children, From the orchard all had gone, And under the silent starlight Stood the old tree, dark and lone. The years fled silently, swiftly, And soon the cousins small Were classed among the lassies, Blushing, blithe and tall. Kate's home was the home of her childhood, But Jennie's was far away, And down to the waving orchard, There came a letter one day :— "Dear, gentle, kind old cousin Kate, Come up and see me,”—thus it ran— "So much to tell, I can never wait, Come up and see me, soon as you can! I've a home that's good, a house that's fine, And friends and flowers, books and trees, All I could wish for, I call mine, |