WHAT HAT shall I do with all the days and hours Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,- Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? O, how or by what means may I contrive I'll tell thee: for thy sake I will lay hold Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. I will this dreary blank of absence make To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomèd time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. sion. By RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. EACE! Let the long procession come, PEAC For hark!-the mournful, muffled drum, The trumpet's wail afar; And see! the awful car! Peace! Let the sad procession go, While cannon boom, and bells toll slow; Bearing our woe afar! Go, darkly borne, from State to State, The dust of that good man! Go, grandly borne, with such a train And you, the soldiers of our wars, Your late commander,-slain! Yes, let your tears indignant fall, Your country needs you now So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes The churchyard where his children rest, The quiet spot that suits him best, There shall his grave be made, And there his bones be laid! And there his countrymen shall come, For many a year and many an age, Of that paternal soul! IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. Reprinted with perBy RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. mission. HERE are gains for all our losses, THE There are balms for all our pain, We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign; Something beautiful is vanished, |