The garments of eternal day, and wing Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! God! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar; Aunt Kindly. Derzhavin. MISS KINDLY is aunt to every body, and has been so long that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her; she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments three-score years ago. Nay, this boy's grandfather found his way to college through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up and call her blessed. To this man's father her patient toil gave the first start in life. That great fortune - when it was a seed she carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation ran out of the cup her bounty filled. Now she is old; very old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or that Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth. To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution of the country. At Christmas they think she is the wife of Saint Nicholas himself, such an advent of blessings is there from her hand. She has helped to lay a blessing in many a poor man's crib. Now these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; they are remembered in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has done is treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer in its breast which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth. Stratum after stratum her good works are laid up, imperishable in the geology of her character. It is near noon. She is alone. She has been thoughtful all day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, and say nothing. In a chamber, from a private drawer, she takes a little casket, and from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped; but the clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding is faded by long use. Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name on the flyleaf; only her Christian name, "Agnes," and the date. Sixty-eight years ago this day it was written there, in a clear, youthful, clerkly hand-with a little tremble in it, as if the heart beat over it quick. It is a very well worn, dear old Bible. It opens of its own accord a' the fourteenth chapter of John. There is a little folded piece of paper there; it touches the first verse and the twenty-seventh. She sees neither; she reads both out of her soul; "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God; believe also in me." "Peace There is a little She takes the She drops a it is a red I leave with you. My peace give I unto you. Not as the world giveth give I unto you." She opens the paper. brown dust in it; perhaps the remnant of a flower. precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes; rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh. She is old no longer. It is not Aunt Kindly now; it is sweet Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was eight-and-sixty years ago, one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God another in her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young man's arm is round her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join, and, like two morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush into one. But the youth must wander to a far land. They will think of each other as they look at the North Star. She bids him take her Bible. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign town. His soul went to God—there is as straight a road from India as from any other spot- and his Bible came back to her— the divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned down at the blessed words of John, first and twenty-seventh of the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to note the spot; what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love. Now to-day her soul is with him, her maiden soul with his angel soul; and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal youth in the Kingdom of Heaven. The Great Bell Roland. Toll! Roland, toll! In old St. Bavon's tower, At midnight hour, The great bell Roland spoke; And all that slept in Ghent awoke! All flying to the city's wall? That Freedom stood in peril of a foe! And every hand a sword could hold! And every arm could bend a bow! Like patriots then- Toll! Roland, toll! If men be patriots still, At thy first sound True hearts will bound, Great souls will thrill! Then toll! and let thy test Try each man's breast, And let him stand confest. Toll! Roland, toll! Not now in old St. Bavon's tower; Not now at midnight hour; Not now from river Scheldt to Zuyder Zee, But here, this side the sea! Toll here, in broad, bright day! For not by night awaits A noble foe without the gates. But perjured friends within betray, Toll! Roland, toll! Thy sound is not too soon! To Arms! Ring out the Leader's call! Till every hero's breast Shall swell beneath a soldier's crest! Toll! Roland, toll! Till cottager from cottage-wall Snatch pouch and powder-horn and gun ! The heritage of sire to son Ere half of Freedom's work was done! Till swords froin scabbards leap! Toll! Roland, toll! What tears can widows weep Less bitter than when brave men fall! Toll! Roland, toll! In shadowed hut and hall Shall lie the soldier's pall, And hearts shall break while graves are filled! And may His grace anoint us all! Toll! Roland, toll! The Dragon on thy tower And Freedom now is safe in Ghent! And in the land's serene content, So let it be! A kingly king is he Who keeps his people free! Toll! Roland, toll! Ring out across the sea! No longer They but We Have now such need of thee! Toll! Roland, toll! Nor ever let thy throat Keep dumb its warning note Till Freedom's perils be outbraved! Till Freedom's flag, wherever waved, Toll! Roland, toll! From Northern lake to Southern strand! Till friend and foe, at thy command, And shout, one-voiced, "God save the land!" Toll! Roland, tolll Theodore Tilton. The Young Gray Head. I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there! One of those sea gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on As threats, the water will be out anon. Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. The children join in this request; but the mother resolves that they shall set out the other seven. One last fond kiss the two girls, Lizzie and Jenny, the one five, As the dame's will was law, so — "God bless my little maids," the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Prepared for their journey they depart, with the mother's admo nition to the elder "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said. "Don't stay |