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

There sprang 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,

And peace which every where

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

prove,

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

years,

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.

WILLIAM COWPER.

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 upon 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 beamingThe 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'er the mournful shades 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.
LUELLA J. B. CASE.

The Christian.

IN dawn of life she wisely sought her God,
And the straight path of thorny virtue trod;
In bloom of beauty humbly turn'd aside,
The incense flatt'ry offer'd to her pride.
In others' griefs a tender part she bore,
And all the needy shar'd her little store;
Fond to oblige, too gentle to offend,
Belov'd by all, to all the good a friend:
The bad she censur'd by her life alone,
Blind to their faults, severe upon her own.
At distance view'd the world with pious dread,
And to God's temple for protection fled;

There sought that peace which Heav'n alone can give,

And learn'd to die ere others learn to live.

ANON.

The Pure in Heart shall Meet Again.

IF yon bright stars which gem the night
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,

Where kindred spirits reunite,

Whom death has torn asunder here;

How sweet it were at once to die,

And leave this blighted orb afar—
Mixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky,
And soar away from star to star.