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SOME GREAT WORK.

When God smote his hands together, and struck out thy soul as a spark,

Into the organized glory of things, from deep of the dark,Say, did'st thou shine, did'st thou burn, did'st thou honor the power in the form,

As the star does at night, or the firefly, or even the little ground-worm?

When God on thy sins had pity, and did not trample thee straight,

With his wild rains beating and drenching thy light found inadequate ;

When he only sent thee the North winds, a little searching and chill,

To quicken thy flame, did'st thou kindle and flash to the heights of his will?

When God on thy sin had pity, and did not meet it as such, But tempered the wind to thy uses, and softened the world thy touch;

At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though unable to prove it afar,

Thou could'st carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it like a star?

Suddenly the song is still-he pauses, and light, such light as might be shed from the white wing of mercy's angel, illumines his face. He flings the knapsack from his shoulders, and brushes the gray hairs from his eyes that are growing dim with the shadows of time-time that has touched him gently withal, for he is well beyond the summer-even where the autumn whitens to the winter snow, and stooping down, takes up the little child in his arms. I will bear him back to yonder friendly mansion, he sayswarmth and food may restore him. The head droops heavily against the bosom of the good old man, and the white skin seems loose about the boy's fingers that clasp his neck, and the lips are blue and unsmiling. Light is the burden, for in a good act there is no heaviness, and as he nears the mansion he says, I shall journey forward lightlier anon, but the door was fast shut, and Miriam was gone within to pray-“Give me, O my Father, to do for thee some great work!"

All night the tireless watcher folded the child in his bosom-sometimes passing his hand across his forehead, and sometimes holding his naked feet to give them warmth, and waiting for the morning; at last, reddening the high eastern hill, and burning through the woods, she came, and all the valleys were full of her genial smile; but alas, the little child might not be warmed again, Where the joyous warble of the thrush shook down the blossoms of the hawthorn, the old man made a grave,

"And left the babe and went away to weep,
And listened oft to hear if he did cry;
But the great river sung his lullaby,

And unseen angels watched his dreamless sleep."

The hush of the Sabbath hung over the world

it was the early tide of summer-the winds crept under the waves of the ripening rye, and hushed their wild laughter into murmurous hymns--the birds went deeper into the forests and carolled less noisily than in hours agone-the shaggy grapevines were weighed down with green clusters, and the red berries glistened and shone from the thicket where the urchin crept slyly, and half afraid of the stillness of the time. The fragrance of the lilacs was all about the open doors, and the rosevines, bright with blooms, blew in at the windows. The cock stood erect and silent in the midst of his feathery dames, for even he . seems to strut less proudly and crow less lustily to-day than is his wont, and the watch dog, with his nose close against the ground, drowses by the wall.

The church door is open, and the sweet-voiced bell is calling to all far and near-"Come up hither," and from far and near, old men and maidens and youths and little children are obeying the call. Some go in noiselessly, and at once give their hearts to the searching of the Holy Spirit. Some linger at the door, exchanging smiles and salutations, and haply suffering the weariness of time's change and chance, or the might of secular aims and interest, to come between them and the psalm. Some with sprigs of yew or cedar, or the simple blossoms gathered by the way, go apart among the graves musing, or weeping alone; and over the green swell of some mound that keeps down the pallid hands of the dearly loved from the flowers, leave their offering to wither like the earth-hopes of the sleeper beneath.

Slowly, from the white cottage that is almost smothered among trees and shrubs and vines, comes the village pastor-"young, and eminently beautiful," but the elasticity is gone from his step, and in his face there is the expression of a sorrow that has worked itself up from the heart. Alas, that he who goes up to speak consolation to the mourner and comfort to the afflicted, should himself be neediest of all-alas, that while he says to the bruised spirit, heaven is waiting to heal you, his own bosom is "bound from bleeding with a cold cerement from the grave." And wherefore? Miriam, Miriam, putting away from thee the now and the here, and sighing for the unattained and far away, in mistaken zeal, let us hope not in pride, hast thou nothing to answer for

in this?

That hollow temple would round back to health
Under the golden fillet of thy smile-

thou knowest it right well.

The heavy locks dampen with the dew that

SOME GREAT WORK.

No,

gathers to his forehead, as he gazes toward the
proud and lofty house where she dwells whom
he fears he shall miss to-day from his little flock.
From the hollow of willows the tassels are gone,
and in the meadow beyond the clovers, red and
white, are alike changed to a dry brown-the
wheat is getting its yellow beard; but varied na-
ture charms not from gloomy yearning the in-
habitant of the dark and close-shut house.
no, she will not come-and his almost transpa-
rent hands knit themselves tighter together as he
tries to shut from his senses what he vainly calls
the carnal, for thoughts of the spiritual life. I have
tasks to do and duties to perform, he muses as
he walks; if I am unequal to their fulfillment,
should I seek to rest my weakness upon another,
and thereby clog the movements of a larger zeal?
or shall I pine out of life, and leave undone that
which I feel within me the ability to do, because
the hands which I would fain have made my
helpers are coldly withdrawn? Nay, there are
lambs astray that even I may gather back-evils
that my weak hands may break-sepulchres from
which I may roll away the stone, and folding the
napkin from the face of the dead, show the weep-
ing kindred that the spirits for which they
mourn are not there, but gone before them into
Paradise.

Solemnly from the old tower sounds the bell, and as he draws near the church, leaning upon that music as it were, his thoughts flow in that sweet rhyme of Tennyson

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold:
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

And are we, wretches, yet alive?
And do we yet rebel?
'Tis boundless, 'tis amazing love,
That bears us up from hell.

Lord, we have long abused thy love,
Too long indulged our sin;

Our aching hearts now bleed to see
What rebels we have been.

No more, ye lusts, shall you command,
No more will we obey;

Stretch out, O God, thy conquering hand,

And drive thy foes away.

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Then came the prayer, which mere words may not portray-it was the spirit of it that was felt, and not the form that was heard- -no dashing of the waves of sorrow against the throne-no importunate demands pressing open, as it were, the beautiful gates of Paradise, but the tremulous whisper of a soul that feels its ruin and clings only in hope to the cross and the power of his mercy, whose last sweet plea from the agony of insulted sorrows

O'er death's night

Passed like the transit of the morning star,
And for a moment in the bosom of hell
Cooled the red burning like a cloud of dew.

But in the sermon, the zeal in, and devotion to, the things which pertain to immortality burned with the chiefest glory. From the 12th chapter of 2d Corinthians he read:

"And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure. For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me."

How upon the waves of faith he arose above the sorrows and afflictions of life-what little things they were! What nothings in the glory of the final triumph! The congregation was swayed One more glance across the hills -a sigh stifled and stirred like waves to the touches of the strong among the heartstrings, and calmly and slowly wind-now they heard the muffled footsteps in he walks in the midst of his people-his cheek the corridors of crime, and shrank frighted from more flushed than its wont, and his eye fuller of the lightest thought of wrong; and now the grievtroubled light, but never before dwelt such mov- ed Spirit made once more the sweet offer of mercy, ing eloquence on his lip. He had gathered up and dying hope revived. The light of the diviner all his wasting energies, and in his words was world seemed streaming abroad over this; fear the power of one newly baptized with the spirit vanished, and trembling hesitancy changed into of grace. Even his presence seemed to have in fixed resolve-though all the world forsake thee, it to-day a spell of mastery, and the hush was yet will I not forsake thee, was the language of intense when he arose and read, with what a every heart, and when the exhortation was findepth of meaning ånd terrible pathos, the hymn-ished, not one bosom there would have shrunk

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SOME GREAT WORK.

from the flames of martyrdom-but who of them all dreamed that from the dim ruins of the brightest hopes of mortality came the eloquent inspira- || tion?

And day was over, and from under the pale wings of the twilight came the stars. At the door of her dark and lofty house Miriam sat alone. The breeze tried to kiss up the crimson to her thin cheek, but in vain-and the flowers, crushed under her feet, sent out their fragrance, but she heeded it not. Her hands lay idly on her knees, and her thoughts were gone across the seas to the benighted lands where the morning of Christianity has but faintly dawned, or not yet broken at all. The labors of the missionary are something worth, she said. How glorious to break in pieces the idols, and build up the true church-to lift the macerated and blind worshipers from the abasement of the dust, and give them to lean on the arm of the great Jehovah! Why am I shut away from doing good? Am I worthy, O Lord, to be thy handmaid-fain would I serve thee-give, O give me to do for thee some great work!

A step glides through the moonlight, and a shadow falls over the gray dew-a soft smile lights up the face of Miriam, making it more beautiful than its wont, as her hand is clasped in that of the village pastor. He hears not the rustle of the winds through the wheat field, nor the tremor of the heavy foliage, nor sees above him the sky like a great blue sea with lilies all over its bosom, golden and red and white, for star differeth from star in glory; but Miriam hears and sees it all. Why was the young man there? He had stilled the earthly passion in his heart-haply the conquest was too easy-haply it was not so perfect as he thought-once more he would measure himself against temptation. O earth, the hold of thy beauty is strong upon us, and the weakness of the flesh is greater than our poor resolves; and he but waked again the torture of unsatisfied thirst. The vine that has fallen in the dust with the vigorous support hard by upon which it would fain fasten its tendrils, but with no hand to lift it up, might be his emblem. And yet he spoke not of love, nor now nor ever-that cold, steady hand, like an allpitiless demon's, held him back. And yet, in the bosom of the maiden the fountain was troubled by his smile, and she longed to rock his sorrows to rest upon her heart; but the humble duties that contented him could not fill the measure of her ambition. The comfort of his people, she said, must be to him enough, nor could I, if I would, snatch him from the borders of the grave. The delusion gave way too late.

Light after light went out from the cottage windows-the silence deepened and deepene and the moon seemed to look reproachfully from the clouds, while in the shadow of the dark house the young man lingered still. The bell strikes the half hour next the midnight, and, with the sudden energy we sometimes gather from despair, he rises and stands erect, but gazing still on the pallid and statue-cold beauty before him.

The white hand of Miriam reaches softly toward him-doth she seek to detain him? trembling with delicious fear, he bends to her whispered words-he does well, she says, to heed the admonitions of his unequal strength and many duties, and seek rest. Mockery of mockeriesfor him there was no more rest. The arm that was just clasping her to his bosom dropped paralyzed away, and the kiss that was falling to her forehead burned back upon his lips. One look of reproachful agony—a farewell tremulous as though a careless hand crushed his heart-strings, and the last torture humanity may suffer had been suffered, and Miriam was alone. Her hands lie idly upon her knees again, and her thought stretches from the certain and palpable to the dim and impalpable, as the shadow stretches into the night. She hears not the echo of a broken heart that goes from the thick darkness of the midnight, wailing and wandering toward the immortal world. She hears not, for the hush is broken by the prayer-Give me, O Lord, to do for thee some great work!

The brown and yellow haze hangs like rust along the edges of the sky-the roses are blown away from the lap of the summer, the ripe fruit drops from the orchard boughs, and the bees creep out into the sun and lie in ridges, golden and black, about the hive-their work is done. The beating of the flail sounds from the threshing floor, and the chaff drifts away on the winds like mist. The fearless boy climbs the tallstemmed tree like a ladder, and shakes the ripe nuts into the lap of the laughing little girl. The white husks lie thick along the corn-field, and the sleek heifer presses impatiently to the fence, seeing the heaps of full-eared corn and bundles of dry blades. Southward over the hills flocks of birds are drifting all day long—the seeds drop from the withered pods, and the down of the thistle sails noiselessly about.

It is not the Sabbath, but the door of the village church is wide open, and across the hills and along the meadows, from the old-fashioned homestead and the white-washed cottage, the people are coming thither with downcast eyes and thoughtful steps.

APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA.

The trees stand naked or faded about the parsonage, that seems to-day very lonesome and still-the books lie unopened on the table, the study-chair is vacant, and strange faces and hushed steps are in the house-whisper answers to whisper, but no one asks where the pastor is gone.

The slow chiming of the church-bell has in it an awful solemnity-even the life-long prayer of Miriam is still, as she hearkens, and leaving her lofty house, her eyes fill with tears, and a shadow dark as death and silent as the grave sweeps across her future, as she answers its call. Pickaxes and spades lean against the larch in the church-yard, and close by there is a great heap of yellow mould. The village pastor is dead.

The dense throng have more than filled the house, and many are standing about the open door and at the windows; but as the step of Miriam falls on the threshold, all make way for her, and the kindly and pious elder, who has long mourned what he deems a soul far astray or darkly rebellious, takes her trembling hand and leads her close to the dead. How still it is! so still that you may hear the wind as it stirs the heavy pall about the coffin. The locks are silver that stream above the sacred page to-day, and the voice falters with the cares and sorrows of many years that reads for the departed the psalm:

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of piety-the growth and engagedness of the Sabbath-school-the fathers and mothers, and maidens and youths, and little children, upon whose foreheads his hands had laid the baptismal waters; and the many hardened sinners wooed from the steep edge of perdition by his mild and unwearied persuasions. The bright example of his life, the preacher said, had been more eloquent than words-he had gone in and out before his people in meekness and simplicity, doing the good things which his hand found to do. By what cords of love this broken and mourning people were drawn hither to-day, and how hard it is to give up even the pale unconscious dust-how hard to look upon the still, fixed smile, that brightens not, as it was used, when they approach-how hard to put the hands that first led them to the cross, under the winding-sheet! He was your guide, your example, your shepherd that kept all your lambs from wandering that made you brave to front the tempter-strong for the time of trial, and good to meet death. Haply he had sorrows, for who of us all have not? but he threw not their shadows over you, and on the ruins of broken hopes he climbed to gather the radiance of eternity. O, he was worthy of all your love—he was worthy of the tears that flow for him, and of the benedictions that hover about his grave--worthy of the covenant you make with your hearts to stand up, if need were, in the judgment and testify to all the hosts of heaven that he hath done a great work!

The day was over, and the clay was heaped to a smooth level mound, and the sorrowful people returned to their houses, desolate, yet not without hope. O Miriam, Miriam, why refusest thou to be comforted? Does the crown of thy love settle on the brows of the dead, and hushest thou now the frequent prayer for that thou feelest truly, as thou musest of his life of duty and his death of peace, he hath done a Great Work?

APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA.

BY HORACE DRESSER

ESQ.,

Faith trembleth at thy passing, mighty flood!
And from the secret chambers of the deep
The voices of thy many waters keep,
In thunder-tones and wild majestic mood,
One everlasting anthem praising God!

Thy fearful pathway leads thee o'er a steep,
Which thou thyself alone dost dare to leap!

I feel to worship here; methinks I'll seat
Me on the beetling cliffs above the brink
Of thy abyss; there ruminate and think :-
How restless is thy surge beneath my feet!
For ever rolling, rushing on to meet

Old ocean's boundless depths, for aye to sink
Into oblivion whence we mortals shrink!

GEMS FROM ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

BY AN ADMIRER.

THERE is a fine gradation and procession in the things of nature, and many are the steps of the golden stair which leads up to the highest. The material forms with which we are conversant, are symbols enclosing a more transcendent beauty; and the life within us is, in its turn, a symbol or adumbration of the primal archetypes. To unfold it, therefore-to lay open its leaves and filaments, that the light which is congenial to it may fall upon it, as the light of the sun upon the opening flower-is the highest and noblest of endeavors, inasmuch as the result is the highest and noblest. The best poets of the day, and none of them more so than Mrs. Browning, dwell long and lovingly in the recesses of our nature, laying their hand upon human love, upon the household affections, upon sin and the counteracting aspirations, upon the tangled yarn of good and evil in the web of life; and as, with songs of wailing or exultation, as in sorrow or in joy, in shadow or in sunshine, they tread those deep recesses which lie so near, yet are such mysteries to us all, we feel that we are in the presence of great spirits, yet, withal, of our own nature and kindred; we feel an unwonted exaltation in their presence; harsh contradictions are smoothed down, and elements of affinity present themselves where previously we saw nothing but everlasting antagonism; we begin to be reconciled to loss and suffering, by perceiving, in another than the mere dogmatic light, that it is the only medium of perfecting an aberrant nature; and we go forth to the work and conflict of life purer in heart and stronger in spirit, in the strength of those mediating spirits who have taught us to know, and given us to feel, more than we knew before of what is meant by mediation.

We have indicated rather than defined the scope and spirit of Mrs. Browning's poetry, Her poems are sermons, but such sermons! Reflect, that she is possessed of varied learning, and is deeply read in classic lore; that, to a masculine energy, attempered and sublimated by womanly affection, she adds a deep religious feeling, and you will have some conception as to what sort of sermons hers are. In listening to them, you are conscious of the double process of enlightenment

and feeling. The mist rolls away, and the warm sunbeams fall upon you. While you know more, you love more, and the process of knowledge is the process of reconcilement. Her texts are chosen from both sides of nature, and from both sides of human life. Her aim is, to reconcile contrarieties; from sin and sorrow, from darkness and suffering, to rise to purity and joy, to the glory and brightness of the land where there is no need of the sun. Mere objective beauty glows at her touch, and you would confess her a true poet, though she had done no more; but this is only the tuning of her harp. It is but the wand she conjures with; the miracle by which she arrests attention. Her ultimate purpose lies far beyond; or, rather, without purpose at all, it is the necessity and tendency of her nature and genius to make the forms of things, the manifestations of natural grace and beauty, the stepping-stones to a temple, in which, when she leads you in, you find the unveiled presences of the outer shadows, and have a glimpse of the divine Schekinah.

But it is time we now proceed to illustrate these generalities by special reference to the poems whose titles we have prefixed to them. The incident of the "Lost Bower" is brief and simple. Once upon a summer's day, a little girl wandered into a wood, and found in it a beautiful bower, which filled her child-heart with overflowing gladness; but, when she returned next day, she could not find it, and never found it more. This is all. On this is built a poem of seventy-six stanzas; and we observe that a writer in one of our monthly magazines, of high reputation, makes merry at the disproportion between the basis and the superstructure. But on as narrow bases are built many things of larger proportions than a poem of this length. A like incident colors the poetry of every poetic life; and the prose of every prosaic life is rendered more prosaic, because every poor possessor of it, once upon a time, found and sported in a beautiful bower, and went back at another time, and missed it, and never found it more. It is a theme old as the expulsion from Eden, and wide as the human race. It appeals to universal sympathies, for all have to regret a lost bower in some wood or

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