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LINKS.

No dread of wasting sickness, No thought of ache or pain, No fretting hours of weakness, Shall mar our peace again.

No death our homes o'ershading, Shall e'er our harps unstring, For all is life unfading, In presence of our King.

LINKS.

ARE there not voices strangely sweet, And tones of music strangely dear? So lovingly the soul they greet,

So kindly steal they on the ear.

We know not why they strike so deep, We cannot tell the secret spring Within us, which they wake from sleep,

Nor how such thoughts their notes can bring

We ask not why nor how they thrill

So keenly through the inmost soul; And why, when ceased, we listen still, As though they yet upon us stole. We feel the sweetness of the voice; We love the richness of the tone; it makes us sorrow or rejoice, Compelling us its power to own