efore, he began to dictate for some one to write. The passage was
about the mystics of the 14th and 15th centuries. The concluding sentence
was: "So it was in general; the further development is to follow." Then
turning to his sister, he said: "I am tired; let us make ready to go
home;" as though they were somewhere on a long and wearisome journey. And
then rallying his last energies in one parting word of tenderness to her
who was bending over him with a breaking heart, he murmured, "Good night,"
and died.

Thus he died with his harness on, not aware, probably, that he was so near
his end; else he might have uttered some dying testimony, which would have
passed into the literature of the church to be the comfort of other saints
in their mortal agony. But, on his own account, no such dying testimony
was required. For thirty-seven years he had stood his ground gallantly in
Berlin, witnessing for Christ in the face of a learned skepticism, and he
could well afford to pass directly, without an interlude, from the toils
and conflicts of earth to the joys and triumphs of the redeemed in heaven.

His labors had been prodigious. He usually lectured not less than fifteen
times a week, published twenty-five volumes, and left behind him several
other volumes nearly ready for the press. His health was never firm. A
rheumatic disease lurked in his system from the time of his illness at
Goettingen. Three years before he died, this disease settled in his eyes,
and made him nearly blind. But against all impediments, he struggled on,
fighting the good fight of faith, patient and resolute, till suddenly his
course was finished, and he took his crown.

POEMS.

BY JULIA WARD HOWE.

I.

THE BEE'S SONG

Do not tie my wings,
Says the honey-bee;
Do not bind my wings,
Leave them glad and free.
If I fly abroad,
If I keep afar,
Humming all the day,
Where wild blossoms are,
'Tis to bring you sweets,
Rich as summer joy,
Clear--as gold and glass;
The divinest toy
That the god's have left,
Is the pretty hive,
Where a maiden reigns,
And the busy thrive.

If you bar my way,
Your delight is gone,
No more honey-gems;
From the heather borne;
No more tiny thefts,
From your neighbor's rose,
Who were glad to guess
Where its sweetness goes.

Let the man of arts
Ply his plane and glass;
Let the vapors rise,
Let the