'Tis but the trial-place of life—a race that's swiftly run:—
Our precious hours are links of gold in that mysterious chain,
That fastens to our life above its pleasure or its pain.
Reclining on a Saviour's arm, we then walk safely here;
He whispers holiest words to us, and wipes the falling tear:
If Death appears, He takes away his cruel, poisonous sting—
Then for a home of perfect bliss He plumes the spirit's wing.
THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.
BY MRS. SARAH J. KANE.