Days of Jog ensue sad Lights of WH HAT joyful harvester did e'er obtain The sweet fruition of his hopeful gain, Till he in hardy labours first had pass’d The summer's heat, and stormy winter's blast? A sable night returns a shining morrow, And days of joy ensue sad nights of sorrow ; The way to bliss lies not on beds of down, And he that had no cross deserves no crown. There's but one heaven, one place of perfect ease, In man it lies, to take it where he please, Above, or here below: and few men do Enjoy the one, and taste the other too: Sweating, and constant labour wins the goal Of rest; afflictions clarify the soul, And like hard masters, give more hard directions, Makes sharp afflictions seem not as they are, The speedy means to health; salve heals no sore, me: 'Tis not for me to carve me where I like; Him pleases when he list to stroke or strike. I'll neither wish nor yet avoid temptation, Howe'er, let me not boast, nor yet repine; Death of the Righteous. H! beautiful beyond depicting words OH! To paint the hour that wafts a soul to heaven! The world grows dim, the scenes of time depart, The hour of peace, the walk of social joy, The mild companion, and the deep-souled friend, The loved and lovely-see his face no more. The mingling spell of sun, of sea and air, Is broken: voice and gaze, and smiles that speak Must perish; parents take their hushed adieu; A wife, a child, a daughter half divine, Or son that never drew a father's tear,Approach him, and his dying tones receive. Like God's own language! 'tis an hour of awe, Yet terrorless, when revelations flow From faith immortal; view that pale worn brow, It gleams with glory!-in his eyes there dawns A dazzling earnest of unuttered joy. Each pang subdued, his longing soul respires And round him, hues ethereal, harps of light, Devotion Breathes Aloud from every Chord. WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue, The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, - To Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched Moved in the hearts of men to do Him homage; Or when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale, Hung weeping o'er the melancholy sun, They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees, And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, Where the pale vine clung round their simple altars, And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, That choked its weedy fountain-and dark rocks, Worn smooth by the constant current, even there The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice, Where weeds grew rank upon the rushy brink, And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent, Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity. Men felt the heavenly influence; and it stole Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace; And even the air they breathed,-the light they saw, Became religion;-for the ethereal spirit, That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, Of eloquent worship. Ocean, with its tide, That, wrapped in darkness, moved upon its face. And have our hearts grown cold? Are there on earth No pure reflections caught from heavenly love? HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. L Death. IKE to the damask rose you see, |