Hark! through the quist evening air, their song
Floats forth with wild sweet ihytbiu and glad refrain.
They sing the conquest of the apirit strong.
The soul that wrests the victory from pain ;
The noble joys of manhood that belong
To comrades and to brothers. In their strain
Bustle of palms and Eastern streams one hears,
And the broad prairie melts in mist of tears.
IN MEMORIAM—REV. J. J. LYONS.
ROSH-HASHANAH, 5636.
Tee golden harvest-tide is here, the corn
Bows its proud tops beneath the I'saper's hand.
Bipe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land ;
Bring the first fruits and offer them this mom,
With the stored sweetness of all summer hours,
The amber honey sucked from myriad dowers,
And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day,
With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil.
Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil,
To Him who gives and Him who takes away.
Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord,
And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune,
And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.
Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord,
Who killeth and who quickeneth again.
