ALICE

FROM the unceasing swell
Of the blue, restless waves,
Inland they bore the lily form
Unto those southern graves.

The sunny Earth's warm breast,
Received her peaceful smile,
From life's short voyage laid to rest
Just for a little while.

O Mother! Death is strong,

But Christ is stronger still;

And the Death Angel in his wrath,
Does but fulfil His will.

Who from Earth's fairest things
Takes some unstained away,

To be brought up beside His throne,

And dwell with Him alway.

C. M. NOEL.

IN MEMORIAM

"I exhort therefore, that, first of all, * * * prayers be made for all men.'-I Timothy, ii., I.

O'ER land and sea, love follows with

fond prayers

Its dear ones in their troubles, griefs, and cares;

There is no spot

On which it does not drop this tender

dew, Except the grave, and there it bids adieu, And prayeth not.

Why should that be the only place uncheered

By prayer, which to our hearts is most endeared,

And sacred grown?

Living, we sought for blessings on their head;

Why should our lips be sealed when they are dead,

And we alone?

"Idle?"-"Their doom is fixed?" Ah, who can tell?

Yet, were it so, I think no harm could well Come of my prayer.

And oh, the heart, o'erburdened with its grief,

This comfort needs, and finds therein relief

From its despair!

Shall God be wroth because we love them

still,

And call upon His love to shield them from all ill,

Our dearest, best,

And bring them home, and recompense

their pain,

And cleanse their sin, if any sin remain, And give them rest?

Nay, I will not believe it. I will pray As for the living, for the dead each day. They will not grow

Less meet for Heaven when followed by a prayer

To speed them home, like summerscented air

From long ago.

Who shall forbid the heart's desires to flow

Beyond the limit of the things we know? In Heaven above

The incense that the golden censers bear,

Is the sweet perfume from the saintly

prayer

Of trust and love.

UNAFRAID

A MAID whose loveliness, not yet full blown,

Wrought every heart to kinship with

her own;

So pure, so sweet, so fair and full of

grace,

She seemed a being of a gentler race, A higher breeding, a more gracious mould,

No clay commingled with her finest gold.

Oh, fitting that the season of her birth, Was that which gave the Prince of Peace, to earth.

But when that holy season came again She caught an echo of the joyous strain