"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me—” Every word her heart did know; "Rock of Ages, cleft for me-" Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly, Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim "Let me hide myself in Thee." Trembling through the voice, and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully As a river in its flow; Sung as only they can sing, Who life's thorny paths have pressed; Sung as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest. "Rock of Ages, cleft for me," Sung above a coffin-lid; Underneath, all restfully All life's cares and sorrows hid. Never more, O storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind or tide, Never more from billow's roll Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips, Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still the words would be, "Let me hide myself in Thee." ANONYMOUS. OLD. By the wayside, on a mossy stone, By the wayside, on a mossy stone. Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading Age and care; Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." "I have tottered here to look once more I have tottered here to look once more. "Old stone school-house!-it is still the same; Old stone school-house, it is still the same. "In the cottage yonder I was born; Long my happy home that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn! In the cottage yonder I was born. "There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; But alas! no more the morn shall bring That dear group around my father's table; Taken wing! There's the gate on which I used to swing. "I am fleeing,-all I loved have fled. Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead! I am fleeing,-all I loved have fled. "Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Points me to seven that are now in glory Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. "Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, Guided thither by an angel mother; Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod; Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. "There my Mary blest me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; There my Mary blest me with her hand. "I have come to see that grave once more, I have come to see that grave once more. "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; 66 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Now, why I sit here thou hast been told.' In his eye another pearl of sorrow, Down it rolled! Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." By the wayside, on a mossy stone, By the wayside, on a mossy stone. RALPH HOYT. THE SONG OF THE CAMP. AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. "GIVE us a song!" the soldiers cried, When the heated guns of the camps allied 3 The dark Redan, in silent scoff, There was a pause. A guardsman said: Sing while we may, another day They lay along the battery's side, Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, They sang of love, and not of fame; Each heart recalled a different name, Voice after voice caught up the song, Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,― Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, Beyond the darkening ocean burned And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And Irish Nora's eyes are dim |