And often you have made them double.

With all your gifts and talents rare,
You meekly take the servants place,
And guard the sheep with jealous care
And hold the lambs in your embrace.

In all the ups and downs of life
We've found in you a constant friend;
You've counselled peace, discouraged strife,
And taught us all our ways to mend.

For eight-and-twenty years you've stood
A watchman on the outer wall;
Repressing evil, aiding good,
And kindly watching over all.

Though age may enervate your frame
And dim the lustre of your eye,
No lapse of time can soil your name,
For names like yours can never die.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARY HAYES.

Another star has left the sky,
Another flower has ceased to bloom;
The fairest are the first to die,
The best go earliest to the tomb.

That radiant star, whose cheering ray,
Adorn'd her quiet, rural home,
Went down, in darkness, at mid-day.
And left that quiet home in gloom.

That lovely flower, admired so much,
In all its loveliness, was lost,
It withered at the fatal touch
Of death's untimely, killing frost.

The mourners go about the street,
While children tell their tale of woe
To every passer-by they meet,
In faltering accents, faint and low.

"Dear Mary Hayes is dead," they say,
While tears roll down their cheeks like rain,
"Her eyes are closed, she's cold as clay,"
And then their tears gush out again.

And stalwart men are dumb with grief,
And sorrow pales the sternest cheek,
While gentler women find relief,
In tears--more eloquent than speech.

Surely there is some fairer land,
Where friends who love each other here
Can dwell, united heart and hand,
Nor death nor separation fear.

Dear sister, dry thy flowing tears;
Fond father, raise thy drooping head;
Kind brothers, banish all your fears;
Your Mary sleeps--she is not dead,

The care-worn casket rests in dust,
The fadeless jewel wings its flight
To that fair land, we humbly trust,
To shine with ever glowing light.

For, on that ever-vernal shore,
When death's appalling stream is cross'd,
Your star will shine forevermore,
Your flower will bloom, untouch'd by frost.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF MISS ELEANORA HENDERSON.

She is not dead, but sleepeth.

--Luke 8:52.

She is not dead, she's sleeping
The dreamless sleep and drear;
Her friends are gathered weeping
Round her untimely bier.

She is not de