Thy spirit filled with holy love,

And free from every earthly taint,
Serving thy God with constant joy,
And glorying in the blest employ.

And so it is, that when my heart
Turns often, as it does to thee,
The gladness thou dost now enjoy
Shines down and sweetly comforts me.
We cannot share our joy and pain,
So now I triumph in thy gain.

N

The Purer Path.

O bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;
No rustle from the birchen stem,

No ripple from the water's hem.

The dusk of twilight round us grew;
We felt the falling of the dew:
Far from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,-
A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;
While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod
We gazed upon the hills of God,
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun :
We spoke not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;
And stilled our beating hearts, to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light,—
Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long slant splendour downward flowed!

Down glade, and glen, and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold,
And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side.

"So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near
The river, dark with mortal fear,

And the night cometh chill with dew,
O Father, let Thy light break through!

"So let the hills of doubt divide,

So bridge with faith the sunless tide!
So let the eyes that fail on earth,
On Thy eternal hills look forth;
And in Thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!"

J. G. WHITTIER.

The Brooklet's Lesson.

"This is not your rest."

WEET Brooklet, ever gliding,
Now high the mountain riding,
The lone vale now dividing,
Whither away?

"With pilgrim course I flow,
Or in summer's scorching glow,
Or o'er moonless wasts of snow,
Nor stop nor stay;

For oh, by high behest,

To a bright abode of rest

In my parent ocean's breast,

I haste away."

66

Many a dark morass,

Many a craggy moss,

Thy feeble force must pass :

Yet, yet delay!

Though the marsh be dire and deep,
Though the crag be stern and steep,
On, on my course must sweep:
I may not stay!

For oh, be it east or west,

To a home of glorious rest

In the bright sea's boundless breast, I haste away!”

The warbling bowers beside thee, The laughing flowers that hide thee, With soft accord they chide thee: Sweet Brooklet stay!

"I taste of the fragrant flowers,
I respond to the warbling bowers,
And sweetly they charm the hours
Of my winding away;

But ceaseless still, in quest

Of that everlasting rest

Mid the mansions of the blest,

I haste away."

66

Knowest thou that dread abyss?

Is it a scene of bliss?

Ah, rather cling to this,

Sweet Brooklet stay!

Oh, who shall fitly tell

What wonders there may dwell?

That world of mystery well

Might strike dismay.

But I know 'tis my parent's breast;
There held I must needs be blest,

And with joy to that promised rest
I haste away."

LORD GLENELG.

E

Love Keeping latch.

AR on yon heath, so lone and wild,
A mother sits to watch her child;
Delighted with its heedless play,

Yet fearful of its going astray.

God watches both: O mother, pray
That when those little feet shall stray
O'er paths of life more lone and wild,
God still may watch thy heedless child.