"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me—”
'Twas a woman sung them now,
Pleadingly and prayerfully;

Every word her heart did know;
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird
Beats with weary wing the air,
Every note with sorrow stirred,
Every syllable a prayer-
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee."

"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,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;
There he sat!

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,
O, to me her name was always Heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
Isabel !

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
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core !

I have tottered here to look once more.

"Old stone school-house!-it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.

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;
Pond and river still serenely flowing;
Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,
Mary Jane!

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,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!

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;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother.
Gone to God!

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,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand.

"I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core!

I have come to see that grave once more.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;

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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,
Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown!

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,
The outer trenches guarding,

When the heated guns of the camps allied
Grew weary of bombarding.

3

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and threatening, under;
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said:
"We storin the forts to-morrow;

Sing while we may, another day
Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side,
Below the smoking cannon;

Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde,
And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame;
Forgot was Britain's glory:

Each heart recalled a different name,
But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,
Until its tender passion

Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,―
Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak,
But, as the song grew louder,
Something upon the soldier's cheek
Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned
The bloody sunset's embers,
While the Crimean valleys learned
How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell

Rained on the Russian quarters,

With scream of shot, and burst of shell,
And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."