Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise,

Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven,

Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured,

Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance.

Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection,

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble.

Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew's,

For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinketh

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending.

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic,

Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them all is her homestead.

Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous

Even as day does the sun; the Right from the Good is an offspring,

Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than

Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide.

Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness

were

Not what they seemed,-but what they only. Blessed is he who Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death's hand Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e'er alarm you?

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and only

More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading

Takes he the soul and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection,

Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face of its father.

Sounds of his coming already I hear,- -see dimly his pinions,

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not before him. Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. his bosom

On

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing

Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by vapors; Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic,

Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured,

Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem,

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels.

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one day shall gather,

Never forgets he the weary;-then welcome, ye loved ones, hereafter!

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise,

Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not;

Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven.

God of the universe, hear me! thou fountain of Love everlasting,

Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy heaven!

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these,

Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father.

May

they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salvation,

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me,

Fall

on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face may I place them,

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with gladness,

Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me !"

Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old man

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar's enclosure.

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly

With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents,

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them.

Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's holy Supper.

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid his

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts high and holy

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonderful brightness. "On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the graveyard!

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely,

Bow down his head to the earth; why delay I? the hour is accomplished.

Warm is the heart;-I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven.

What I began accomplish I now; what failing therein is

I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father.

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens newcome in heaven,

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement?

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often.

Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token,

'Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgressions

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 'T was in the beginning

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o'er the

Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atonement. Infinite is the fall,-the Atonement infinite likewise.

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose gold flows

Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine-cup.

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom,

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body,

And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh

Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father!

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?"

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children,

"Yes!" with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplications,

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

Responds, as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long?"

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER.

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world;
Here Arab-like, is pitched my tent
And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,-away!
Too long did it remain !

So long, that both by night and day It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;

To a grave so cold and deep The mother beautiful was brought; Then dropt the child asleep.

GOD'S-ACRE.

39

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on
earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the

sod,

And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow!

TO THE RIVER CHARLES.

RIVER! that in silence windest

Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea!

Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.

Oft in sadness and in illness,

I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide.

And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.

Not for this alone I love thee,

Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue.

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.

More than this; - thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side.

Friends my soul with joy remembers! How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers

On the hearth-stone of my heart!

This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart,

Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,
Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,
A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life's goblet freely press,
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress

New light and strength they give!

MAIDENHOOD.

MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!

Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar!

O, thou child of many prayers!
Life bath quicksands,--Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;-
Age, the bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.