THE UNKNOWN WAY.
No one knows the unseen way
Through which the spirit's form shall stray Emerging from its shell of clay.
These soulless shells upon Time's tide,
The kindly earth shall sheltering hide;
For life no more may there abide.
Joy fills no more the closed eye—
The lips have said their last "Good Bye "-
Through unseen paths that soul shall hie ;
Through fields no mortals' feet may roam-
Freightless and bare, to find a home
Far from earth's land or ocean's foam.
Perchance through trackless fields of air;
Yet why alone? for God is there!
The Father-He is everywhere!
On earth, beyond, we are His care.
FIRST GLIMPSE OF HEAVEN.
I should like to paint a picture
To be called First Glimpse of Heaven. Radiance in form and feature
To that happy face be given,
Picture of first glimpse of Heaven.
It should tell of earnest longing,
Earnest strivings all fulfilled;
No more care-born thoughts there thronging
Every earthly passion stilled-
Face with hope's fruition filled.
Not the face of happy mortal;
Nor of Angel dazzling bright
Gazing through that glorious portal-
Faith's beholdings changed to sight;
Still a face radiant with light.
For the light there on it falling,
Night should never cloud nor dim ;
Sweet loved voices to it calling,
Sounding through Heaven's peaceful hymn,
Eyes no sorrows more should dim.
But beyond the art of Painter,
Higher than the Poet's dream—
Earthly tints grow faint and fainter,
Meeting Heaven's bright, sunlit gleam;
Till the picture is a vision,
And the vision is a dream.
"COME UNTO ME AND 1 WILL GIVE YOU REST."
O weary Wanderer on the shores of Time!
With fears and doubts and trivial cares opprest,
Thy feet drag heavy on Life's shifting sands,
"Come unto Me and I will give you rest."
O weary Wanderer on the shores of Time !
Whose hopes, like setting suns, have found their West,
No rosy morn for them on earth shall rise.
"Come unto Me and I will give you rest."
Give all the longings and the dreamings o'er,
Nor longer seek through time a fruitless quest,-
The path of Peace lies upward, and afar.
"Come unto Me and I will give you rest.”
Rest-Rest! there is a sweetness in the sound,—
To weary souls, of words, the best,-the best-
Come to green pastures and to living streams;
"Come unto Me and I will give you rest."
I lie and of my morning ride I dream-
Of the brown tints that fleck the road-side stream,
Lower than when Spring's footsteps o'er it trod
Calling each violet from its rocky nook;
For pebbles dimple now the little brook
Where Summer walks in noon-day heat dry shod.
Up where the elm tree waves its festoons high
Sings with glad shrillness now the harvest fly;
The echo of its song is dry, dry, dry.
How fresh and pure this morning is the air-
We leave behind the city's dust and care;
We are new born as is the new born Day,
And sweet our thoughts as Summer's scented hay.
Light as the bird we glide along, along,
And with each songster's note our heart holds song.
Sweeter the joys this out-door labor yields
Of him "who jocund drives his team afield,"
Than pent-up artisan, who draws his breath
Creating beauty with the touch of death.
How sad the thought that the fierce greed of gain
Bargains with Plenty on each fruitful plain;
And for the riches that shall not endure,
Curses the land, and wrongs the helpless poor!
How with our pleasure comes such thoughts as these,
Where Nature strives with all her charms to please;
The tired nerves say to all such thoughts "Begone!"
Let the eye feast with what it looks upon,—
The ear drink in each wild bird's happy song;
New life in every breeze that sweeps along.
We would forget the city's toil and sin;
Nature's green temple we would enter in,
Traverse the aisles by generations trod,
And in his works behold the living God.
By generations trod? Where is the trace?
Their footsteps-how the passing winds efface.
Their puny works the elements now scorn.
But he who paints the skies evening and morn,
Who shall rub out such tints as these? or bring
Yearly and surely the green robe of Spring?
Or bid the grass erect its slender spears?
Or the rich harvest show its golden ears?
Oh! what were we without a living Faith?
Weak mortals, bowing one by one, to Death.
The wisest he, who 'mid his earthly toil,
Sees more than food upspringing from earth's soil;
Sees more than light and sun from out the sky;
Sees more in ocean than his ships pass by;
And while earth's cares the fleeting hours demand,
For the last journey holds his staff in hand.
[On receiving a photograph of “Prince," dog of Mrs. C. N. S. Horner, the Botanist, and companion of her wood excursions.]
Glad to see you! faithful, old fellow !
Yes, you are old-what then? what then?
I think to be old, enhances the value
Often of dogs, and more often of men.
Guard to your mistress in many a ramble,
None to molest with you at her side,
Briskly you run through the brake and the bramble,
Looking up in her face, as though proud to be guide!
Faithful, aye, faithful! we blush to be human,
When man shows his treachery day after day,
And dogs, for the ones who have crushed them and scourged them,
For these poor, worthless lives, will perish alway!
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