Poetry: Footsteps Of Angels

When the houra of Day tire numbered, And tho voices of the Night Wake the batter soul that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening Iamps aro lighted, And, liko phantoms grim and t all, Shadowafrora the fitful ñreiliofht O Dance upon the parlor vvall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved ones, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who clieri9hcd Noble longings for the strife,- By the roadside feil and perished, Weary with themarch of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, - Folded their pala hands so meekly, - Spake with ua on earth no more! And with tbem the Being Beautious, Who unto my youth wasgiven, More than all things else to love me, And ia now a saint in hcaven. With a slow and noiselesa footstep, Comes that mes3enger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me, W ith those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, eo stilland saint-like, Looking dovvnward froin the ekies. Uttered not, ytt comprehended, Ï3 the spirit'a voiceloss prayer; Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her üps of air. O, though ofl depressed and loncly, All my fears are laid aeide,. If I bul remeraber only Such os these have lived and died !