From the cross the radiance streaming,
Adds more lustre to the day.

Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the cross are sanctified;

Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.

BE KIND TO OLD AGE.

BE ever kind to those who bend
Beneath the weight of time;
For they were once, like thee, my friend,
In blooming manhood's prime.

But bitter cares and weary years,
Have borne their joys away,

Till naught remains, but age and tears,

And darkening, dim decay.

Life's sweetest hours have hastened past,

Its bloom is faded now,

And dusky twilight deepens fast,

Along the furrowed brow.

And soon the shattered remnants all,
A narrow house receives;
For one by one they silent fall,
Like withered Autumn leaves.

Oh, then be kind where'er thou art!
Nor deem such action vain-
Kind words can make the aged heart
Seem almost young again.

Cheer thou the weary pilgrim on,
To yonder mansion cold;

And may the same for thee be done,
When thou thyself art old.

The following were found among the papers of their fate lamented author.

THE GOOD MAN DIES.

BY JONATHAN CHAPMAN.

THE good man dies,

And though time flies,

His memory flieth not;
Men may forget

His face, but yet

His name is ne'er forgot,

That here to him was given,

It matters not,

For he has got

Eternal wealth in heaven.

Fame may attend,

Or he may bend

In lowliest vale, his head,

But where he dies

A flower will rise,

And sweetest fragrance shed,

ETERNAL GOD THY WAYS ARE JUST.

BY JONATHAN CHAPMAN.

ETERNAL God, thy ways are just,
Though dark to mortal eyes;

Let not frail children of the dust,
E'er doubt the only wise.

What though across the noonday sky,
The tempest-cloud be driven?
That cloud, so frowning to our eye,
Is brightly turned to heaven.

And so the sorrows that pursue
Life's moments of delight,
Though evils to our narrow view,
Are blessings in thy sight.

Justice and judgment are thy throne,
Though darkness veil it o'er,
The eye of sense may weep alone,
But faith will still adore.

WHAT MEANS THIS, MOTHER?

BY JONATHAN CHAPMAN.

WHAT means this, mother? OI feel
Cold fingers o'er my forehead steal,
They are not thine, for warmth was there
When thine were playing in my hair,

Move them away,

they chill me through, Mother, what hides thee from my view? Where are my feet, my hands, my breath? Tell me, dear mother, is this death?

Let me not go, thine only one,
I cannot leave thee all alone;
O thou hast often eased my pain,
Canst thou not make me well again?

Press me, dear mother, to thy heart,
I cannot, cannot from thee part;
How 't would from fear my spirit free,
If thou would'st only go with me.

Come, mother, come, dear father's there,
I've heard thee say so in thy prayer,
Come and in heaven we 'll ever dwell
With him on earth we loved so well.

Where art thou, mother? Let me hear
Thy voice, this gloomy way to cheer;
Thou 'st often said, that heaven was home,
Come, dearest mother, come, come, come.