SPIRIT VOICES.

BY GEORGE W. LAMB.

In the silent greenwood glade,
In the dim old forest's shade,
By the rushing river,-

There are sweet low voices singing,
Music on the soft breeze flinging,

And they haunt me ever.

In the star-crowned, quiet night, Ringing from the moonlit height, Whispering from the vale, From the swinging, leafy bough, And the dewy flowers below,

Murmuring still their tale.

SPIRIT VOICES.

'Tis of days long passed away, 'Tis of forms now cold in clay

These sweet voices tell.

At the memories they bring,
Tears and smiles, together, spring
From the heart's deep swell.

Old friends again about me stand,
And once more the clasping hand
And the kindling eye,

Better far than words can do

Tell that hearts are warm and true
As in days gone by.

And, as these sweet visions throng,
Joyous laughs with many a song

On the charmed air swell,

And strike upon the dreaming brain
Till the old time seems back again—
The old time loved so well.

Ever thus in greenwood glade

And in the deep forest shade

And by the rushing river,

There are sweet, low voices singing,
Music to the soft breeze flinging,

And they haunt me ever.

171

GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS.

BY GEORGE F. MAGOUN.

No proud cathedral bell the prayer-call bearing,
Swung solemnly within its lofty tower,

All sights and sounds, and their true hearts unerring
Proclaimed the hour.

The sunset-wane of day's resplendent glory,
Wrote on the clouds in roseate letters there,
Like some fine limner famed in ancient story,

"To prayer! To prayer!"

The breeze that waved the meek, dew-dripping flowers,

And breathed inspiring fragrance on the air,

A murmur sent through all their blossomy bowers,

"To prayer! To prayer!"

GATHERING OF THE COVENANTERS. 173

Not mid the pomp of serried arch and column
They led their meek and reverent array;
Where all was wild, yet Sabbath-like and solemn,
They turned to pray.

Wild, and yet Sabbath-like! Huge rocky masses Were piled that yawning cavern-temple round, Where the fierce earthquake in its rifting passes A home had found!

The Patriarch came, his long white locks revealing
Time's sway of joy and sorrow, hope and fear,
And the wee infant tottered from his dwelling

The mother came.

Of scarce a year.

Her woman's heart will falter

As priestly hands her baptized infant lift,

And still the white-robed maidens at the altar

Blush at the gift!

* *

* Stay!-A swift banner-plaid went flashing

High o'er the rocky verge with sudden gleam,

And sullenly a heavy stone fell plashing

Upon the stream!

Up! worshippers! unto your Eyrie dwelling
If ye would never death or torture know!
Like a wild torrent from the mountains swelling
Burst the red foe !

And lo! while fiery curse and imprecation
Pour in hot volleys on the praise-stirred air ;
The mountain-flood,-swift herald of salvation,-
Itself is there!

Their foam-flecked crests o'er hill and valley flinging,
On! on the raving, thundering waters pour !
On that wild sea no wave-washed corse is swinging,
One yell!-'twas o'er !

While high above, unheard amid the thunder,
The Covenanters praise that vengeful God,
Who flung the mighty from his prey asunder
On that dark flood!

That spirit reigneth still! So, Christian, waging
A terrible war along life's corse-strown road,
Fear not! One power can calm thy foe's fierce

raging

Oh! trust in God!