ll forgot, to rest my head
Unmarked beside the silent dead;
Hushed by the murmurs of the wave
That moans around my FATHER'S GRAVE.

VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND.

WORDS BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

COMPOSED AND ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE

BY VALENTINE DISTER.

Presented by George Willig, No. 171 Chestnut Street.--Copyright
Secured according to Law.

[Illustration: music sheet 1]

In the silence of the midnight,
When the cares of day are o'er,
In my soul I hear the voices
Of the loved ones gone before;

[Illustration: music sheet 2]

And the words of comfort whisp'ring,
Tell they'll watch on ev'ry hand,
And I love, I love to list to
Voices from the spirit land,
And I love, I love to list to
Voices from the spirit land.

2.

In my wanderings, oft there cometh
Sudden stillness to my soul;
When around, above, within it
Rapturous joys unnumber'd roll;
Though around me all is tumult,
Noise and strife on every hand,
Yet within my soul I list to
Voices from the spirit land.

3.

Loved ones that have gone before me
Whisper words of peace and joy;
Those that long since have departed,
Tell me their divine employ
Is to watch and guard my footsteps:
Oh, it is an angel band!
And my soul is cheered in hearing
Voices from the spirit land.

GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF KATE WALSINGHAM.

Oh, there is many a spot in this every-day world of ours as bright and
beautiful as those of which we dream, or go miles away to visit and
admire; but we must seek for them in the right spirit, ere the dimness
will pass away from eyes blinded by the love of foreign novelties. Our
own land, ay, even our own city--the crowded mart of commerce, and the
vast haunt of poverty and crime, is rich in many a quiet nook, which,
although it might arrest the attention if depicted on the gemmed page
of the picturesque annual by some summer tourist, it is considered
plebeian to notice as we pass them in our daily walks.

We have sat beneath the vines and blue skies of Italy, and heard from
her moonlight balconies such strains as made us hold our breath to
listen that we might not lose a note ere the perfumed breeze bore it
lingeringly away: and in after years, in those English balconies we
have described, wept, beneath the same moon, tears that had more of
joy than grief