LEONA.-JAS. G. CLARKE.

Leona, the hour draws nigh,

The hour we've awaited so long,

For the angel to open a door through the sky,
That my spirit may break from its prison, and try
Its voice in an infinite song.

Just now, as the slumbers of night

Came o'er me with peace-giving breath, The curtain half lifted, revealed to my sight Those windows which look on the kingdom of light That borders the river of death.

And a vision fell, solemn and sweet,

Bringing gleams of a morning-lit land;

I saw the white shore which the pale waters beat, And I heard the low lull as they broke at their feet Who walked on the beautiful strand.

And I wondered why spirits should cling
To their clay with a struggle and sigh,
When life's purple autumn is better than spring,
And the soul flies away like a sparrow, to sing
In a climate where leaves never die.

Leona, come close to my bed,

And lay your dear hand on my brow;

The same touch that thrilled me in days that are fled, And raised the lost roses of youth from the dead,

Can brighten the brief moments now.

We have loved from the cold world apart,

And your trust was too generous and true

For their hate to o'erthrow; when the slanderer's dart Was rankling deep in my desolate heart,

I was dearer than ever to you.

I thank the great Father for this,

That our love is not lavished in vain;

Each germ in the future will blossom to bliss,
And the forms that we love, and the lips that we kiss,
Never shrink at the shadow of pain.

By the light of this faith am I taught
That my labor is only begun;

In the strength of this hope have I struggled and fought
With the legions of wrong, till my armor has caught
The gleam of Eternity's sun.

Leona, look forth, and behold

From headland, from hillside, and deep,
The day-king surrenders his banners of gold,
The twilight advances through woodland and wold,
And the dews are beginning to weep.

The moon's silver hair lies uncurled,

Down the broad-breasted mountains away;
Ere sunset's red glories again shall be furled
On the walls of the west, o'er the plains of the world,
I shall rise in a limitless day.

Oh! come not in tears to my tomb,

Nor plant with frail flowers the sod;

There is rest among roses too sweet for its gloom,
And life where the lilies eternally bloom

In the balm-breathing gardens of God.

Yet deeply those memories burn
Which bind me to you and to earth,

And I sometimes have thought that my being would yearn
In the bowers of its beautiful home to return,

And visit the home of its birth.

"Twould even be pleasant to stay,

And walk by your side to the last;

But the land-breeze of Heaven is beginning to play,— Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day,

And its tumult is hushed in the past.

Leona, good bye; should the grief

That is gathering now, ever be

Too dark for your faith, you will long for relief,
And remember, the journey, though lonesome, is brief,
Over lowland and river to me.

ANSWER TO "LEONA."

My darling, I'm close to your bed,
My hand is still laid on your brow,
And I feel that love's magic forever has fled,
That I must resign you, my beautiful dead,
And my life seems all desolate now.

NUMBER SEVEN.

Oh, speak to me, darling, once more!

Once more lift your eyes to my face,

With the same trusting glance that so blessed me of yore, And the same tender smile that to greet me you wore, When I thrilled at your loving embrace,

Let me feel the caress of your hand,

Hear your voice in its sweet melody,

Teach me more of that home in the "morning-Itt land,"
Before you cross o'er to the "beautiful strand,"
Leaving time and its trials to me.

All alone in the darkness I weep,

But you heed not my tears as they fall;
"Tis Leona who calls, but you slumber so deep,
That only the angels can waken your sleep,
And I cannot hear their soft call.

"Leona," the whisper comes low,

Like the soft summer wind through the trees, And I listen to catch the faint murmurous flow Of the musical words that are rippling so low, While my spirit is fanned by the breeze

That is wafted on angels' white wings

From the "balm-breathing gardens" above;
And sweet melody floats o'er my broken heart-strings
As some magical power back the dim curtain flings,
And shows me the form that I love.

Oh, friend of my youth's happy hours!
Oh, love of my life's later years!

As I gaze on you now, in those heavenly bowers,
Where angels have welcomed and crowned you with flowers
Enchanted I smile through my tears,

But the mist from life's river will rise
And hide the dear vision from view;
I shall call in the night, when no echo replies,
And pray for the dawn to transfigure the skies,
And light me o'er lowland to you.

BROTHER WATKINS.

A CAPITAL STORY AS TOLD BY JOHN B. GOUGH.

We have the subjoined discourse, delivered by a Southern divine, who had removed to a new field of labor. To his new flock, on the first day of his ministration, he gave some reminiscences of his former charge, as follows:

"My beloved brethering, before I take my text I must tell you about my parting with my old congregation. On the morning of last Sabbath I went into the meeting-house to preach my farewell discourse. Just in front of me sot the old fathers and mothers in Israel; the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks; their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad-fare ye well, brother Watkins—ah! Behind them sot the middle-aged men and matrons; health and vigor beamed from every countenance; and as they looked up I could see in their dreamy eyes-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Behind them sot the boys and girls that I had baptized and gathered into the Saboath-school. Many times had they been rude and boisterous, but now their merry laugh was hushed, and in the silence I could hear~ fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Around, on the back seats, and in the aisles, stood and sot the colored brethering, with their black faces and honest hearts, and as I looked upon them I could see a—fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! When I had finished my discourse and shaken hands with the brethering-ah! I passed out to take a last look at the old church-ah! the broken steps, the flopping blinds, and mosscovered roof, suggested only-fare ye well, brother Watkinsah! I mounted my old gray mare, with my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant-girls stood in the doors, and with their brooms waved me a-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! As I passed out of the village the low wind blew softly through the waving branches of the trees, and moaned-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I came down to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles a-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! And even the little fishes, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight, I

thought, gathered around to say, as best they could-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I was slowly passing up the hill, meditating upon the sad vicissitudes and mutations of life, when suddenly out bounded a big hog from a fence-corner, * with aboo! aboo! and I came to the ground with my saddlebags by my side. As I lay in the dust of the road my old gray mare run up the hill, and as she turned the top she waved her tail back at me, seemingly to say-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I tell you, my brethering, it is affecting times to part with a congregation you have been with for over thirty years-ah!"

NOT VERY FAR.-IIORATIUS BONAR.

Surely yon heaven, where angels see God's face,
Is not so distant as we deem

From this low earth. "Tis but a little space,
The narrow crossing of a slender stream;
'Tis but a veil which winds might blow aside.
Yes; these are all that us of earth divide
From the bright dwelling of the glorified,-
The land of which I dream.

These peaks are nearer heaven than earth below,
These hills are higher than they seem;

'Tis not the clouds they touch, nor the soft brow
Of the o'erbending azure, as we deem.
"Tis the blue floor of heaven that they upbear,
And, like some old and wildly rugged stair,
They lift us to the land where all is fair,-
The land of which I dream.

These ocean waves, in their unmeasured sweep,
Are brighter, bluer than they seem;

True image here of the celestial deep,

Fed from the fulness of the unfailing stream-
Heaven's glassy sea of everlasting rest,

With not a breath to stir its silent breast

The sea that laves the land where all are blest,-
The land of which I dream.