But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely bride,

Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays,

How the vast cathedral arches will re-echo with my praise!" Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,

With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love

or prayer,

For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing there

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone,

And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted

stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him

Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and dim?

Whose the fault, then?-Hers, the maiden standing meekly at his side!

Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to him,— his bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;

On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth.

Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his

name;

For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by

night and day

Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray,Thought of her a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;

Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all compiete,

And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her feet.

Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary day and night,

Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow alight!

Through the gates into the city on he pressed with eager tread;

There he met a long procession,-mourners following the dead.

"Now, why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury ye to-day?

Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers along

the way?

"Has some saint gone up to heaven?" "Yes," they answered, weeping sore:

"For the Organ-builder's saintly wife our eyes shall see no

more:

And because her days were given to the service of God's

poor,

From his church we mean to bury her. See! yonder is the door."

No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried out, white with pain;

No one questioned when, with pallid lips, he poured his tears like rain.

""Tis some one whom she has comforted who mourns with

us," they said,

As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's head,

Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing

aisle,

Let it down before the altar, where the lights burned clear the while;

When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began to play Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness, never heard until that day!

All the vaulted arches rang with music, sweet and clear; All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering near; And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the coffia's head

With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside it-dead.

They who raised the body knew him, and they laid him by

his bride;

Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were carried, side

by side;

While the organ played a dirge that no man ever heard before,

And then softly sank to silence,-silence kept for evermore. -Harper's Magazine.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.

WILLIAM H. MUHLENBERG.

I would not live alway,-live alway below!
Oh, no; Ill not linger when bidden to go;
The days of our pilgrimage granted us here

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.

Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,

Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?

Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth would I roam,

While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for rest, we but hover arouad,
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;
Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air,
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair;
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.
I would not live alway,-thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without, and corruption within;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory is mine, ere I'm captive again;
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears;
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb;
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom;
Where He deigned to sleep, I'll, too, bow my head,
All peaceful to slumber on that.hallowed bed;
Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,
The orient gleam of the angels of light,

With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise,
And chant forth their matins away to the skies.

Who, who would live alway-away from his God,
Away from you heaven, that blissful abode,
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,
While the songs of salvation exultingly roll,

And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?
That heavenly music! Hark, sweet in the air,
The "harps of the harpers" I hear ringing there!
And see soft unfolding those portals of gold,
The King all arrayed in His beauty behold!
Oh, give me,-oh, give me the wings of a dove,
To adore Him, be near Him, enrapt with His love:
I but wait for the summons, I list for the word, —
Alleluia! Amen! Evermore with the Lord!

OUR OLD DOCTOR.

There wasn't a better doctor, nor a kinder man in a circuit of thirty miles, than Dr. Gunnison. He was sent for from far and near, and in serious danger all the younger physicians looked to him for counsel.

The temperance movement had just begun at the time of which I speak, and its advocates would have rejoiced to have Dr. Gunnison on their side. But he held himself aloof. He "didn't believe in temperance pledges. A man ought to be able to keep himself within bounds if he was a man. If not, he might as well go to the dogs."

They were not religious people, the doctor and his lovely wife, and if they had any creed it was made up chiefly of "don't believes." They had no children, and were all in all to each other.

As time passed on, people began to think and say that it would be as well for the doctor if he did believe in the temperance pledge. Now and then they saw him go by, swaying from side to side on his faithful old horse, -as

kind and intelligent a beast as ever man rode, or with head bowed low in a half-dranken stupor. They watched him anxiously as he crossed the ford, which was somewhat difficult and dangerous in some places. But the horse knew what he was about if his master did not, and he really seemed to accommodate his gait to the swaying figure on his back, as he stepped carefully along.

One evening we saw him approaching, just as we sat down to supper. It was early in April, the river was higher than usual, and we saw with alarm that the doctor was less fit to cross than we had ever seen him.

Father sprang for his hat, and ran out and hailed him. The horse stopped,--of his own accord, I think,—and then father went to the doctor and asked him to come in and stay till morning at our house. He urged the unusual danger in crossing, and even made so bold as to say, "You know you're not fit to cross there to-night, doctor!”

He urged in vain, it appeared, for the doctor spurred his horse, and pushed on to the very edge of the stream. There he paused, and at length turned about and rode back to where father stood watching.

"I'll go back and stay with you, if you've got a temperance pledge in the house, and will give it to me," he

said.

Father could hardly believe his ears, but he answered quite coolly,

"I have one, and I'll give it to you with pleasure."

He led him in and seated him at a table in the sittingroom, while he came into the kitchen where the suppertable was spread, to speak to mother to make ready a' plate for him. When he returned to the doctor he was leaning forward on the table in a heavy sleep. It was vain to try to waken him, so he was left there till all the family were in bed. Then father made an effort to get him to go to bed, and he awoke. He was more himself

now.

"Where's that pledge you promised to give me?" said he. Wondering much whether he was conscious what he