There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown,
A long eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away ;

As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

The Voyage of Life.

AMONG our hills and valleys, I have known

Wise and grave men, who, while their dili-
gent hands

Tended or gather'd in the fruits of earth,
Were reverent learners in the solemn school
Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent
Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower
That darken'd the brown tilth, or snow that beat
On the white winter's hills. Each brought, in
turn,

Some truth; some lesson on the life of man,
Or recognition of the Eternal Mind,

Who veils his glory with the elements.

One such I knew long since, a white-hair'd man,
Pithy of speech, and merry when he would;
A genial optimist, who daily drew
From what he saw his quaint moralities.
Kindly he held communion, though so old,
With me, a dreaming boy, and taught me much,
That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget.

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, And steep'd the sprouting forests, the green hills,

And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds
Stood cluster'd, ready to burst forth in bloom,
The robin warbled forth his full, clear note

For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,
Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce

cast

A shade, gay circles of anemones

Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,

Brighten'd the glens; the new-leaved butternut,
And quivering poplar, to the roving breeze
Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields,
I saw the pulses of the gentle wind

On the young grass. My heart was touch'd

with joy,

At so much beauty, flushing every hour

Into a fuller beauty; but my friend,

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, Gazed on it mildly sad. I ask'd him why. "Well may'st thou join in gladness," he replied,

"With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers,

And this soft wind, the herald of the green, Luxuriant summer. Thou art young, like them, And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight

Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quench'd

In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird ?"

I listen'd, and from midst the depth of woods Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears A sable ruff around his mottled neck:

Partridge they call him by our northern streams, And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 'Gainst his barr'd sides his speckled wings, and made

A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes At first, then fast and faster, till at length

They pass'd into a murmur, and were still.

"There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type

Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know,
But images like these will freshen truth.
Slow pass our days in childhood, every day
Seems like a century; rapidly they glide
In manhood, and in life's decline they fly;
Till days and seasons flit before the mind
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter's storm,

Seen rather than distinguish'd. Ah! I seem As if I sat within a helpless bark,

By swiftly-running waters hurried on

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, Bare sands, and pleasant homesteads; flowery nooks,

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear
Each after each; but the devoted skiff

Darts by so swiftly, that their images
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell
In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep
By other banks, and the great gulf is near.

"Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long,
And this fair change of seasons passes slow,
Gather and treasure up the good they yield—
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts,
And kind affections, reverence for thy GOD,
And for thy brethren; so, when thou shalt come
Into these barren years that fleet away
Before their fruits are ripe, thou mayst not bring
A mind unfurnish'd, and a wither'd heart."

Long since that white-hair'd ancient slept-but still,

When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard bough,

And the ruff'd grouse is drumming far within
The woods, his venerable form again

Is at my side, his voice is in my ear.

W. C. BRYANT.

The Heavens Declare thy Glory. YE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread

Your brilliant places in the sable vault

Of night's dominions! planets and central orbs
Of other systems, big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts,
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warped with low prejudices, to unfold,

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator; Him, who now sublime,
Wrapped in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres, Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies: the glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene. Th' Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note and cry, "The Lord is great!" Responding to the seraphim. O'er all, From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him.