Who can resist thy gentle call, appealing

To every generous thought and grateful feel

ing,

Cheer up, my soul! faith's moonbeams softly glisten

Upon the breast of life's most troubled sea;

To those brave songs which angels mean for thee.

HENRY DOBBS HOLT was born in New York City, Feb. 20, 1814, and graduated from the Medical Department of the University of the City of New York in 1847. Dr. Holt was engaged in editorial labors at different times from 1835 to 1864, and in the practice of his profession. He is the author of a volume of verses printed for private circulation in 1874.

SINKS the sun and fades the light,
Evening darkens into night,
Deeper shadows gather fast,
And another day is past,
And another record made
Nevermore to change or fade
Till the Book shall be unsealed,
When the judgment is revealed.
Ere I give myself to rest
Let me make this solemn quest:
Have the hours that winged their flight
Since the dawning of the day,
Sped me on my homeward way,
Am I nearer heaven to-night?

Have I since the opening morn
Faithfully my burden borne?

Has my strength on God been stayed?
Have I watched and have I prayed,
Seeking with a steadfast heart
Zealously the better part?

Have I run the Christian race
With a swift and tireless pace?
Have I conquered in the strife
Which besets my hourly life?
Have I kept my armor bright,
Am I nearer heaven to-night?

Has my vision clearer grown
Of the things to faith made known,

PHOEBE CARY was born on a farm eight miles north of Cincinnati, Ohio, Sept. 4, 1824. She wrote the following lines on Sunday after church service. She was more robust than her sister Alice, was self-reliant, and endowed with more humor. In 1852 she joined her sister in creating the home in New York, that was a pleasant resort for literary persons for a score of years. The sisters were Univer salists, but their hymns have been adopted by people of all creeds.

The humming of the tune to which the following lines are sung, in a gambling-den in China, is said to have been the means, by reviving home associations, of saving one man from the dissipation of the card-table.

Phoebe Cary died at Newport, RI, July 31. 1871. in consequence of grief and exhaustion caused by the death of her sister a few months before.

ONE sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er :
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea ;

ULTIMA VERITAS.

IN the bitter waves of woe,

Beaten and tossed about By the sullen winds that blow

From the desolate shores of doubt, –

When the anchors that faith had cast

Are dragging in the gale,

I am quietly holding fast

To the things that cannot fail :

I know that right is right;
That it is not good to lie;
That love is better than spite,
And a neighbor than a spy;

1879.

I know that passion needs
The leash of a sober mind;
I know that generous deeds
Some sure reward will find;
That the rulers must obey;

That the givers shall increase;
That Duty lights the way

For the beautiful feet of Peace: In the darkest night of the year, When the stars have all gone out, That courage is better than fear, That faith is truer than doubt;

And fierce though the fiends may fight,
And long though the angels hide,

I know that Truth and Right
Have the universe on their side;

And that somewhere, beyond the stars,
Is a Love that is better than fate;
When the night unlocks her bars
I shall see Him, and I will wait.
WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his

state

need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." JOHN MILTON.

THE POET'S CROWN.

MARY E. CHAMBERLAIN, now MRS. M. E. C. WYETH, was born at Salem, Mass., Dec. 1, 1832, but as her parents removed to St. Louis, Mo., in 1833, her life has been identified with that city. Her first volume of poems was issued in 1850, under the name "Ethel Grey," which she had used previously, and continued to use until 1867. Mrs. Wyeth has written largely in prose, one of her stories, entitled "The Victor of Cross Road Mission," having been highly commended on its appearance in the New York Independent. A volume of her stories, collected from the columns of the Christian Weekly, has been published by the American Tract Society, New York. Mrs. Wyeth is a great recluse.