By A.E. LANCASTER.
"Bring him not here, where our sainted feet
Are treading the path to glory;
Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet
Repeats for us His story.
Go, take him where 'such things' are done—
For he sat in the seat of the scorner—
To where they have room, for we have none,
To 'that little church 'round the corner.'"
So spake the holy man of God,
Of another man, his brother,
Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod,
Had only asked that a Christian rite
Might be read above them by one whose light
Was, "Brethren, love one another";
Had only asked that a prayer might be read
Ere his flesh went down to join the dead.
Whilst his spirit looked, with suppliant eyes,
Searching for God throughout the skies;
But the priest frowned "No," and his brow was bare
Of love in the sight of the mourner;
And they looked for Christ and found Him—where?
In "that little church 'round the corner."
Ah, well! God grant, when with aching feet
We tread life's last few paces,
That we may hear some accents sweet
And kiss to the end, fond faces;
God grant that this tired flesh may rest
(Mid many a musing mourner),
While the sermon is preached and the rites are read,
In no church where the heart of love is dead,
And the pastor a pious prig at best,
But in some small nook where God's confessed—
Some "little church 'round the corner."
Captain Obstinate.
ANONYMOUS.
One fine evening in the month of July, an old soldier of the "grand army," who had left one of his arms on the field of battle, was seated at the door of his pretty cottage.