If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!" Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay; The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 124.-THOU WILT NEVER GROW OLD. Thou wilt never grow old, Nor weary, nor sad, in the home of thy birth. In a clime that is purer and brighter than earth. In that kingdom of light with its cities of gold, Never grow old! I am a pilgrim, with sorrow and sin Haunting my footsteps wherever I go; Life is a warfare my title to win; Well will it be if it end not in woe. Pray for me, sweet: I am laden with care; Never grow old! Now canst thou hear from thy home in the skies So I believe, though the shadows of time Never grow old! Thus wilt thou be when the pilgrim, grown gray, Weeps when the vines from the hearthstone are riven: Faith shall behold thee as pure as the day Thou wert torn from the earth and transplanted in heaven. O holy and fair! I rejoice thou art there, In that kingdom of light with its cities of gold, Never grow old! 125.-OUR HONORED DEAD. H. W. BEECHER. How bright are the honors which await those who, with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have endured all things that they might save their native land from division and from the power of corruption. The honored dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death. Their names are gathered and garnered. Their memory is precious. Each place grows proud for them who were born there. There is to be, ere long, in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes. Tablets shall preserve their names. Pious love shall renew their inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it. Oh, tell me not that they are dead—that generous host, that airy army, of invisible heroes. They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears. He was your son; but now he is the nation's. He made your household bright: now his example inspires a thousand households. Dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land. Before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you. Now he is augmented, set free, and given to all. Before he was yours: now he is ours. He has died from the family that he might live to the nation. Not one name shall be forgotten or neglected, and it shall by-and-by be confessed of our modern heroes, as it is of an ancient hero, that he did more for his country by his death than by his whole life. Neither are they less honored who shall bear through life the marks of wounds and suffering. Neither epaulette nor badge is so honorable as wounds received in a good cause. Oh, mother of lost children! sit not in darkness, nor sorrow whom a nation honors. Oh, mourners of the early dead, they shall live again, and live forever. Your sorrows are our gladness. The nation lives because you gave it men that loved it better than their own lives. And when a few more days shall have cleared the perils from around the nation's brow, and she shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth upon her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life given to her, shall live with her life till time shall be no more. Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of National Remembrance. Captain, heard ye e'er a player "I gie ye thanks-but, Captain, maybe For the friendless, lonely laddie, Then her rough hand gently laying On the curl-encircled head, She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, For Captain Grey was sadly dreaming Breathed above his head then golden, One more kiss-watch for me, mother, After battle. Moonbeams ghastly Death's dark wave to yonder shore. Death and daisies from the sod- Is it thus I find you, laddie? See the morning is not near." A moment paused the drummer boy, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 127.-THE STREAM OF LIFE. BISHOP HEBER. Life bears us on like the current of a mighty river. Our boat, at first, glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings of the little brook and the windings of its grassy border. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads; the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us, but the stream hurries us on, and still our hands are empty. Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, and amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry which passes before us; we are excited by some shortlived success, or depressed and made miserable by some equally short-lived disappointment. But our energy and our dependence are both in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left behind us; we may be shipwrecked, but we cannot anchor; our voyage may be hastened, but it cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens toward its home, till the roaring of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of the waves is beneath our keel, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us, and we take our last leave of the earth and its inhabitants; and of our further voyage there is no witness but the Infinite and Eternal. And do we still take so much anxious thought for future days, when the days which have gone by have so strangely and so uniformly deceived us? Can we still so set our hearts on the creatures of God, when we find by sad experience that the |