For she was rich, and gave up

To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,

And laboured in her lands.
Long since beyond the Southern Sea

Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.
It is their prayers,

which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines


her face. H. W. LONGFELLOW.


The Gospel of Peace.
SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell ?

humbly crave
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And asked if

peace were there,
A hollow wind did seem to answer, “No!

Go seek elsewhere."
I did ;--and going, did a rainbow note:

Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat:

I will search out the matter.
But while I looked, the clouds immediately

Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy

A gallant flower,
The crown imperial. “Sure," said I,

“ Peace at the root must dwell.”
But when I digged I saw a worm devour

What showed so well.
At length I met a reverend good old man;

Whom when for peace
I did demand, he thus began :

“ There was a prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase

Of flock and fold.
“He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save

His life from foes,
But after death out of his grave

twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond'ring at got some of those

To plant and set.
“It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse

Through all the earth;
For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtues lie therein;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,

By flight of sin.
“Take of this grain which in my garden grows,

And grows for you:
Make bread of it; and that repose,
peace which


With so much earnestness do you pursue,

Is only there." GEORGE HERBERT.

The Path of Sorrow.
THE path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reached that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briars in his road.
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strain;
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unsure feet they yet securely tread;
Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end :
But He, who knew what human hearts would

How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls His grace designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their
And said, “Go, spend them in the vale of tears!”
O balmy gales of soul reviving air!
O salutary streams, that murmur there!
These, flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those, breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys;
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang, experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin:


But ills of every shape and every name, Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; And every moment's calm that soothes the breast, Is given in earnest of eternal rest.


The Soul has gone to Him who gives

it Rest.

'TIS evening's hush: the first faint shades are

creeping Thro’ the still room, and o'er the curtained bed, Where lies a weary one, all calmly sleeping,

Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. Death's cold gray shadow o'er her features falling, Marks her


the threshold of the tomb; Yet from within no sight nor sound appalling,

Comes o'er her spirit with a thought of gloom. See-on her pallid lip bright smiles are wreathing,

While from the tranquil gladness of her breast, Sweet holy words in gentlest tones are breathing :

“Come unto me and I will give you rest.” Night gathers round—chill, moonless, yet with

tender, Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes, Bending serenely from their homes of splendor,

Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies.

The hours wear on: the shaded lamp burns

dimmer, And ebbs that sleeper's breath as wanes the

night, And still with looks of love those soft stars

glimmer, Along their pathways of unchanging light. She slumbers still—and the pale, wasted fingers,

Are gently raised, as if she dreamed of prayer; And on that lip so wan the same smile lingers, And still those trustful words are trembling

there. The night is done: the cold and solemn dawning

With stately tread goes up the eastern sky; But vain its power, and vain the pomp of morning,

To lift the darkness from that dying eye. Yet Heaven's full joy is on that spirit beaming

The soul has found its higher, happier birth, And brighter shapes flit thro’ its blessed dreaming

Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. The sun is high, but from those pale lips parted, No more those words float on the languid

breath, Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted

Hastriumphedo'erthemournfulshades of death. Thro’ the hushed room the midday ray has wended

Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast : The gentle sleeper's mortal dreams are ended The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest.


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