A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain,"

Phoebe Cary substituted the words:
"I see the lights of the baker

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of hunger comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick
And resembles sorrow only,

As a brickbat resembles a brick."

However, more than for anything else, perhaps, Phoebe Cary will be remembered for her lyric, One Sweetly Solemn Thought. Not long before she died she heard a story of something which this little poem had accomplished, which made her very happy. A gentleman going to China was entrusted with a package for an American boy in China. Arriving at his destination, he failed to find the boy, but was told that he might discover him in a certain gambling house. As he sat and waited, he watched with disgust and loathing the dreadful scenes going on about him. At a table near him sat a young boy and a man of perhaps forty, drinking and playing cards; they were swearing horribly and using the vilest language.

At length, while the older man shuffled and dealt the cards, the boy leaned back in his chair and half unconsciously began to hum, finally singing under his breath Phoebe Cary's hymn, One Sweetly Solemn Thought.

"Where did you learn that hymn?" cried the older gambler abruptly.

"At Sunday School at home," replied the boy, surprised.

The older man threw the cards on the floor. "Come, Harry," he said, "let's get out of this place. I am ashamed that I ever brought you here, and I shall do my best to keep you from entering such a place again.'

Together the two passed from the gambling house, and the man who watched them learned later that they were both true to their resolution to live a different life.

NEARER HOME

By PHOEBE CARY

NE sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;

I am nearer home to-day

Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;

Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea:

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;

Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,

Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps

Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think,

Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!

AM

PICTURES OF MEMORY
By ALICE CARY

MONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all;

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;

Nor for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;

Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge;

Nor for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,

It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep;

In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:

Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;

And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.

Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest

Seemeth the best of all.