tells a tale
Of the mellow, winsome sunshine,
Or of fierce, destructive gale.

Though the strings be few in number,
They have compass far beyond
The myriad chords around them,
That are less delicately tuned.

List we softly to the music
As its volumes gently roll,
Varied in their intonation
By the tension of the soul.

Ecstatic measures fill us
With a rapture so profound,
That we fancy heaven's portals
With such harmonies abound.

Each note is rich in meaning,
Each tone is full and clear
To the charming sweet delusion
Of imagination's ear.

If you would hear this music
And be charmed by its tone,
Attune your heart to harmony,
For the music is its own.

No lessons conned in schooldays,
No studied forms of art,
Can profit us so greatly
As communion with our heart.

It will sing us songs of rapture,
Though silent each may be;
It will help to solve the questions
Of life's great mystery.

If one would hear sweet harmony
He carefully must live;
For these songs will be an echo
Of the keynote he shall give.

If heartstrings be but tuned aright
Sweet melodies we hear;
If strung with envy and deceit,
The tone is doleful, drear.

Then let us tune our hearts with joy,
And touch the strings with glee,
For honor, truth, and purity,
Will bring soul-ecstasy.

WHO KNOWS?

It matters not what be our lot
Upon this mundane sphere,
In spite of fears and burning tears
While we shall linger here,
We must depend on foe or friend
For many things we need
To give the soul that full control
Which makes it strong indeed.

For noble end, make him a friend
Who can reciprocate,
A kindly act, not to it tacked
The proof of reprobate.
God only knows whom we may choose
And safely trust as brother,
The seeming saint may have a taint
That proves him quite another.

In human dust we scarcely trust
The egotistic pious,
Who thinks that he from sin is free--
Not subject to its bias;
A holy man does all he can
For God and human kind;
He meekly lives, but counsel gives
In language pure, refined.

TWILIGHT HOUR.

[Set to Music by Com. T. C. Adams.]

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