"None escape the common doom;
All are equal in the tomb.
God avenges thus the poor-
This their solace evermore.

"Read upon this tomb: Here lies-'
There My Lord-a hard one—dies,
And My Lady in her pride
Crumbles by his crumbling side.

"Thus among the tombs I tread,
I alive, my betters dead—
I alive and they but dust:
Oh, be certain God is just!

"In this place that truth I found,
Hence I deem it holy ground,
Over-worth, a thousand-fold.
All the county, wood and wold.”
So the feeble murmurs died;
We in Christian words replied,
Speaking in our measured scope
Of a purer faith and hope,

Of the gospel of the poor,
But he answered us no more,
Quickened by one thought alone,
Else his ears were ears of stone.

Lo! the cricket hushed his music
At the dull, unwonted sound
Of the ripened mellow apple
Falling softly to the ground.

All the days of rain or sunshine

Here had made their work complete Since the blossom dropped in springtime Till the fruit fell at my feet, Loosened by the hand of Nature

With a touch that made no sound, From the Father's hand of bounty Falling softly to the ground.

Men have watched or men have slumbered,

Counted days or laughed or wept,
But the upward flow of juices
God's great calendar have kept,
And the great machine of Nature
Onward moves without a sound,
Till we, startled, mark its fruitage
Falling softly to the ground.

Then

my heart was dark and heavy As I saw an iron hand Moving in a sweep resistless Through the air and sea and land, Ripening its plans gigantic,

Holding all things helpless, bound, Till the full-grown curse or blessing

Falls as fruitage to the ground.

But the silver autumn splendor
Shone about my waiting feet,
Glistened on the golden fruitage,
Sending up an odor sweet;
And I read a sweeter lesson

In the harvest spread around

Of a God of patience ever

Showering blessings o'er the ground.

A. T. WORDEN.