Or else array yourselves in plain attire;
      Set up the love of Christ in every heart
    Let each affection feel its fervent fire,
      And in this money-worship bear no part.

    Now make your choice between your gold and heaven;
      Buy all the sinful pleasures wealth can bring;
    Increase them through the years to mortals given
      And die, at last—­a beggar—­not a king.

    Yes, make your choice between your gold and heaven;
      Find peace and pardon in a Saviour’s blood;
    Freely bestow what, free to you, is given,
      And meet, at last, the welcoming smile of God.

THE DOUBLE NIGHT.

BY MORRISON HEADY,

Of the Kentucky Institution for the Blind.

To the shades of Milton and Beethoven.

    “Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins
    From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought
    To reason, and on reason build resolve—­
    That column—­of true majesty in man—­
    Assist me—­I will thank you in the grave.”—­

Night Thoughts.

DARKNESS.

    Go, bring the harp that once with dirges thrilled,
    But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers,
    Save when the faltering hand untimely chilled
    Steals o’er its chords in broken numbers. 
    It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell,
    Where echoless Silence tolls the passing bell,
    Where shadowless Darkness weaves the shrouding spell
    Of parting joys and parting years. 
    Go, bring it me, sweet friend, and ere we part,
    A lay I’ll frame, so sad ’twill wring thy heart
    Of all its pity, all its tears

    As fitful shadows round me gather fast,
    And solemn watch my thoughts are holding,
    Comes Memory, Panoramist of the Past. 
    The rising morn of life unfolding,
    Now fade from view all living toil and strife;
    Time past is now my present; death, my life;
    All that exists is obsolete;
    While o’er my soul there steals the pensive glow
    Of sainted joys that young years only know,
    And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw
    Their lengthening shadows at my feet.

    I see a morn domed in by pictured skies;
    The dew is on its budding pleasures,
    The gladsome, early, sunlight on it lies,
    And to it from this dark my pent soul flies,
    As misers nightly to their treasures. 
    And, as I look, I see a glittering train,
    In airy throng, across the dreamlit plain,
    Come dancing, dancing from the tomb;
    Flitting in phantom silence on my sight;
    In silence, yet all beautiful and bright,
    The ghosts of joy, and hope, and bloom. 
    But passed me by; their lines of fading light
    Tell of decay, of youth’s and beauty’s blight;
    Then, like spent meteors shimmering through the night,
    The vision melts in closing gloom.