The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more.

Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught

To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, Fair as it is, existed, ere it was.

Not for its own sake merely, but for his

Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise;
Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought,
To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once
Its only just proprietor in him.

The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed
New faculties, or learns at least to employ
More worthy the powers she owned before,
Discerns in all things (what with stupid gaze
Of ignorance till then she overlooked)
A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms
Terrestrial in the vast and the minute,
The unambiguous footsteps of the God
Who gives its luster to an insect's wing,
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.

Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure,
Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause
For which we shunned and hated thee before.

Then we are free; then liberty, like day,
Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven

Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not

Till thou hast touched them: 'tis the voice of song,

A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works,—

Which he that hears it, with a shout repeats,

And adds his rapture to the general praise.
In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide
Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile

The Author of her beauties, who, retired
Behind his own creation, works, unseen
By the impure, and hears his power denied.
Thou art the source and center of all minds,
Their only point of rest, eternal Word !
From thee departing, they are lost, and rove
At random, without honor, hope, or peace.
From thee is all that soothes the life of man,
His high endeavor and his glad success,
His strength to suffer and his will to serve.
But O, thou bounteous Giver of all good,
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

AMONG THE ISLES OF SHOALS.

CELIA THAXTER.

Swept by every wind that blows, and beaten by the bitter brine for unknown ages, well may the Isles of Shoals be barren, bleak, and bare. At first sight, nothing can be more rough and inhospitable than they appear. The incessant influences of wind and sun, rain, snow, frost, and spray, have so bleached the tops of the rocks, that they look hoary, as if with age, though in the summer-time a gracious greenness of vegetation breaks here and there the stern outlines, and softens somewhat their rugged aspect. Yet so forbidding are their shores, it seems scarcely worth while to land upon them,— mere heaps of tumbling granite in the wide and lonely sea,when all the smiling, "sapphire-spangled marriage-ring of the land" lies ready to woo the voyager back again, and welcome his returning prow with pleasant sights and

sounds and scents that the wild wastes of water never know. But to the human creature who has eyes that will see, and ears that will hear, nature appeals with such a novel charm that the luxurious beauty of the land is half forgotten before one is aware. Its sweet gardens, full of color and perfume; its rich woods and softly swelling hills; its placid waters, and fields, and flowery meadows, are no longer dear and desirable; for the wonderful sound of the sea dulls the memory of all past impressions, and seems to fulfil and satisfy all present needs. Landing for the first time, the stranger is struck only by the sadness of the place, — the vast loneliness; for there are not even trees to whisper with familiar voices, nothing but sky and sea and rock. But the very wilderness and desolation reveal a strange beauty to him. Let him wait till evening comes,

"With sunset purple soothing all the waste,"

and he will find himself slowly succumbing to the subtle charm of that sea atmosphere. He sleeps with all the waves of the Atlantic murmuring in his ears, and wakes to the freshness of a summer morning; and it seems as if morning were made for the first time. For the world is like a new-blown rose, and in the heart of it he stands, with only the caressing music of the water to break the utter silence, unless, perhaps, a song-sparrow pours out its blissful warble like an embodied joy. The sea is rosy, and the sky: the line of land is radiant; the scattered sails glow with the delicious color that touches so tenderly the bare, bleak rocks. These are lovelier than sky or sea or distant sails, or graceful gulls' wings reddened with the dawn; nothing takes color so beautifully as the

bleached granite; the shadows are delicate, and the fine, hard outlines are glorified and softened beneath the fresh first blush of sunrise. All things are speckless and spotless; there is no dust, no noise, nothing but peace in the sweet air and on the quiet sea. The day goes on ; the rose changes to mellow gold, the gold to clear, white daylight, and the sea is sparkling again. A breeze ripples the surface, and wherever it touches, the color deepens. A seine-boat passes, with the tawny net heaped in the stern, and the scarlet shirts of the rowers brilliant against the blue. Pleasantly their voices come across the water, breaking the stillness. The fishingboats steal to and fro, silent, with glittering sails; the gulls wheel lazily; the far-off coasters glide rapidly along the horizon; the mirage steals down the coast-line, and seems to remove it leagues away. And what if it were to slip down the slope of the world and disappear entirely? You think, in a half-dream, you would not care. Many troubles, cares, perplexities, vexations, lurk behind that far, faint line for you. Why should you be bothered any more?

"Let us alone.

Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb."

And so the waves, with their lulling murmur, do their work, and you are soothed into repose and transient forgetfulness.

THE SNOW-STORM.

JAMES THOMSON.

Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends,

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished fields

Put on their winter robe of purest white.

'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low, the woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first

Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is,—
Till, more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds

Pour forth their brown inhabitants.

The hare,

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset

By death in various forms,— dark snares, and dogs,
And more unpitying men,- the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind