the hereafter,
When we range with the Seraphim,
Happiness will be augmented
By the kindly presence of Tim.

We trust an expanded mission
Will fill us with joy to the brim,
As we ramble the fields of glory,
With genial and faithful friend Tim.

THE UNWRITTEN LETTER.

On receiving sprigs of Forget-me-not and Lilly-of-the-Valley in
envelope, through mail, with no note or name inclosed.

In form it was a letter,
Unique in its every part,
The expression could not be better,
For it touched my inmost heart.

No pen had marred its beauty,
No ink had traced a line,
It did its silent duty
Like a messenger divine.

Upon its page was written
No English, French, nor Greek;
But a universal language
That only flowers can speak.

The colors were pure whiteness
And heavenly tints of blue,
Excelling all the brightness
That art can bring to view.

The Lily-of-the-Valley
And sweet Forget-me-not,
That grow where perfumes dally
In sweet secluded spot,

When sent to tell some story
That words cannot express,
Are fraught with special glory
And richest tenderness.

Their perfumes speak of gladness,
Their colors of delight,
They neutralize dull sadness,
Turn darkness into light.

They link the heart of sender
To heart to which they're sent,
And unto both will render
The sweetness of content.

I love them for their clearness,
Their whiteness and their blue;
But added to such dearness
Is the thought they came from you.

ALL THINGS ARE SECOND-HANDED.

On being asked to write an original poem.

"There's no new thing under the sun,"
Said the ancient priest and preacher;
What seems now new is only done
To quicken some old feature
That lies effete, or badly worn,
And lacks its pristine rigor,
That needs an energizing touch
To give it life and vigor.

The sun that shines on us to-day,
Shone on our ancient parents
Who walked upon the primal clay;
And science fully warrants
That not one atom has been lost,
And not one atom added
To all the atom matter host,
Although some forms have faded.

The gorgeous colors that are cast
On cloud-land morn and even,
Are but reflections of the past