I help others to be good, according to the small measure of my ability. My spiritual adventures are like those of the little boy that run away from Providence.' When troubled or discouraged, my soul seats itself on some door-step-there is ever some one to welcome me in, and make a nice little bed' for my weary heart. It may be a young friend, who gathers for me flowers in summer, and grasses, ferns, and red berries in the autumn; or it may be sweet Mary Howitt, whose mission it is to turn the sunny side of things to human eyes ;' or Charles Dickens, who looks with such deep and friendly glance into the human heart, whether it beats beneath embroidered vest, or tattered jacket; or the serene and gentle Fenelon; or the devout Thomas á Kempis; or the meek-spirited John Woolman; or the eloquent hopefulness of Channing; or the cathedral tones of Keble, or the saintly beauty of Raphael, or the clear melody of Handel. All speak to me with friendly greeting, and have somewhat to give my thirsty soul. Fain would I do the same, for all who come to my door-step, hungry, and cold, spiritually or naturally. To the erring and the guilty, above all others, the door of my heart shall never open outward. I have too much need of mercy. Are we not all children of the same Father? and shall we not pity those who among pit-falls lose their way home?

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like ghosts of the dead:
Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon,
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days, lost or left;
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, forgone;
And I, a lone exile, remembered by none;
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun;-

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may

scan,

I fly to the desert afar from man!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush.boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife ;
The proud man's frown and the base man's fear,
The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-
O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,
Afar in the desert alone to ride!
There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,—
The only law of the desert land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side :
Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By the valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild ass is dinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown karroo, where the fleeting cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively,
And the timorous quagga's shrill-whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away, away, in the wilderness vast,
Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan ;
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink,
s the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink;

A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,
Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,
Appears to refresh the aching eye;

But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon, round and round,
Spread, void of living sight or sound.

And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,
And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,
As I sit apart by the desert stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,

A still small voice comes through the wild,
Like a father consoling his fretful child,
Which banishes bitterness, wrath and fear,
Saying,-MAN IS DISTANT, BUT GOD IS NEAR!

THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION.

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,

Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed,

When will he awaken?

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, But the tones of the beloved ones were never heard again.

When will he awaken?

Asked the midnight's silver queen.

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping; Parents, kindred, comrades have mourned for him

as dead;

keeping,

And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.

When will he awaken ?

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring; Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;

When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,
Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring
Love?

When will he awaken?

Asks the midnight's weary queen.

How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth,

How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth?

'T is for such they waken!

When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted

few;

Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true. So doth the soul awaken,

Like that youth to night's fair queen!

THE INFANT'S DREAM.

Oh! cradle me on thy knee, mamma,

And sing me the holy strain

That soothed me last, as you fondly prest
My glowing cheek to your soft white breast;
For I saw a scene when I slumbered last,
That I fain would see again.

And smile as you then did smile, mamma,
And weep as you then did weep;
Then fix on me thy glistening eye,
And gaze and gaze 'till the tear be dry,
Then rock me gently, and sing and sigh,
Till you lull me fast asleep.

For I dream'd a heavenly dream, mamma,
While slumbering on thy knee,

I lived in a land where forms divine

In kingdoms of glory eternally shine,

And the world I'd give, if the world were mine,
Again that land to see.

I fancied we roam'd in a wood, mamma,
And we rested, as under a bough;
Then near me a butterfly, flaunted in pride;
And I chased it away through the forest wide,
And the night came on and I lost my guide,
And I knew not what to do.

My heart grew sick with fear, mamma,

And I loudly wept for thee;

But a white-rob'd maiden appear'd in the air, And she flung back the curls of her golden hair, And she kiss'd me softly ere I was aware, Saying "come pretty babe with me."

My tears and fears she beguiled, mamma,
And she led me far away;

We enter'd the door of the dark, dark tomb,
We pass'd through a long, long vault of gloom;
Then open'd our eyes on a land of bloom,
And a sky of endless day.

And heavenly forms were there, mamma,
And lovely cherubs bright;

They smiled when they saw me, but I was amaz'd,
And wond'ring, round me, I gaz'd and gaz'd,
And songs I heard, and sunny beams blaz'd;
All glorious in the land of light.

But soon came a shining throng, mamma,
Of white-winged babes to me;
Their eyes looked love, and their sweet lips smil'd,
And they marvell'd to meet with an earth-born child;
And they gloried that I from the earth was exil'd,
Saying, "here love, blest thou shalt be."

Then I mixed with the heavenly throng, mamma, With cherub and seraphim fair;

And saw as I roam'd the regions of peace,

The spirits which came from this world of distress;
And there was the joy no tongue can express,
For they know no sorrow there.

Do you mind when sister Jane, mamma,

Lay dead, a short time agone?

Oh! you gaz'd on the sad, but lovely wreck,
With a full flood of woe, you could not check,
And your heart was so sore you wish'd it would
break,

But it lov'd, and you still sobbed on!
But Oh! had you been with me, mamma,
In realms of unknown care;

And seen what I saw, you ne'er had cried, Though they buried pretty Jane in the grave when she died,

For shining with the blest, and adorn'd like a bride, Sweet sister Jane was there.

Do you mind that silly old man, mamma,

Who came very late to our door,

And the night was dark, and the tempest loud.
And his heart was sick, and his soul was proud,
And his ragged old mantle serv'd for his shroud,
Ere the midnight hour was o'er?

And think what a weight of wo, mamma,
Made heavy each long drawn sigh,

As the good man sat on papa's old chair,
While the rain dripp'd down from his thin grey hair,
And fast as the big tear of speechless care

Ran down from his glazing eye.

And think what a heavenly look, mamma,
Flash'd through each trembling tear,

As he told how he went to the baron's strong hold,
Saying "Oh! let me in for the night is so cold,"
But the rich man cried, "go sleep in the wold,
For we shield no beggars here."

Well, he was in glory too, mamma,

As happy as the blest can be;

He needed no alms in the mansions of light,

For he sat with the patriarchs, clothed in white, And there was not a seraph had a crown more bright, Nor a costlier robe than he.

Now sing, for I fain would sleep mamma,

And dream as I dream'd before,

For sound was my slumber, and sweet was my rest, While my spirit in the kingdom'of Life was a guest, And the heart that has throbb'd in the climes of the blest,

Can love this world no more.

"There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain or break the beart." WORDSWORTH.