Mornings are mysteries: the first, World's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food:
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each day:
Despatch necessities; life hath a load
Which must be carried on, and safely may :
Yet keep these cares without thee! let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.
Not one Prayer is Breathed in Vain. MY GOD, I thank thee! may no thought
E'er deem thy chastisements severe; may this heart, by sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.
Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;
The sun shines bright, and man is gay;
Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom
That darkens o'er his little day.
Full many a throb of grief and pain
Thy frail and erring child must know;
But not one prayer is breathed in vain,
Nor does one tear unheeded flow.
Thy various messengers employ;
Thy purposes of love fulfil;
And, mid the wreck of human joy,
May kneeling faith adore thy will!
ANDREWS NORTON.
, let us Seize on what is Stable.
TOLD thee, soul, that joy and woe
Were but a gust, a passing dew :
I told thee so,—I told thee so,—
And, O my soul, the tale was true!
This mortal life, a fleeting thing,-
When most we love it, swiftest flies;
It passes like a shade and dies:
And while it flaps its busy wing,
It scatters every mist that lies
Round human hopes,—all air and dew.
I told thee so,-I told thee so,—
And, O my soul, the tale was true!
Like the dry leaf that autumn's breath
Sweeps from the tree, the mourning tree,
So swiftly and so certainly
Our days are blown about by death:
For life is built on vanity;
Renewing days but death renew.
I told thee so,—I told thee so,— And, O my soul, the tale was true!
O, let us seize on what is stable,
And not on what is shifting! All
Rushes down life's vast waterfall,
On to that sea interminable
Which has no shore. Earth's pleasures pall,
But heaven is safe, and sacred too.
I told thee so,-I told thee so,—
And, O my soul, the tale was true!
FRANCISCO DI VELASCO, Trans. by BowRING.
"Life, how Fair!"
T morning I stood on the mountain's brow,
In its May-wreath crowned, and there
Saw day-rise in gold and in purple glow,
And I cried, "O Life, how fair!"
As the birds in the bowers their lay began,
When the dawning time was nigh,
So wakened for song in the breast of man
A passion heroic and high.
My spirit then felt the longing to soar
From home afar in its flight,
To roam, like the sun, still from shore to shore,
A creator of flowers and light.
At even I stood on the mountain's brow,
And, rapt in devotion and prayer,
Saw night-rise in silver and purple glow,
And I cried, "O death, how fair!"
Now is cold, thy mother's spirit
Can not rest among the dead.
Still her watchful eye is o'er thee
Through the day, and still at night
Hers the eye that guards thy slumber,
Making thy young dreams so bright.
Oh! the friends, the friends we've cherished,
How we weep to see them die!
All unthinking they're the angels
That will guide us to the sky!
Mother! oh, where is that Radiant Shore ?
"I HEAR thee speak of the better land;
Thou callest its children a happy band:
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ?—
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ?——
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle
boughs ?"
"Not there-not there, my child!"
"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ?-
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?"
"Not there—not there, my
"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral
strand-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?"
"Not there-not there, my child!"
"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time does not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there it is there, my child!"
HUES of the rich unfolding morn,
That, ere the glorious sun be born,
By some soft touch invisible
Around his path are taught to swell;—
Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing ;-
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