Bearing her onward to her finished race: The common doom awaits her, “dust to dust;" Her languid prayer, her graces dim and faint, "THE THINGS THAT ARE UNSEEN ARE ETERNAL." THERE is a state unknown, unseen, Where parted souls must be; And but a step may be between The friend I loved has thither fled, I see no light-I hear no sound, Jesus was wrapt from mortal gaze, And clouds conveyed him hence; Enthroned amid the sapphire blaze, Beyond our feeble sense. Yet say not - Who shall mount on high, To bring him from above? For lo! the Lord is always nigh The children of his love. The Savior, whom I long have sought, And would, but cannot see And is he here? O wondrous thought! And will he dwell with me? I ask not with my mortal eye Give me to see Thee, and to feel- I seek not fancy's glittering height, The gathering clouds of sense dispel, Illume this shadowy soul of mine, O let the light in darkness shine, Impart the faith that soars on high, That holds sweet converse with the sky, EXPERIENCE. How false is found, as on in life we go, Our early estimate of bliss and wo! Some sparkling joy attracts us, that we fain Would sell a precious birth-right to obtain. There all our hopes of happiness are placed; Life looks without it like a joyless waste; No good is prized, no comfort sought beside; Prayers, tears implore, and will not be denied. Heaven pitying hears the intemperate, rude appeal, And suits its answer to our truest weal. The self-sought idol, if at last bestowed, Proves, what our wilfulness required Ne'er but as needful chastisement, is given a goad; The wish thus forc'd, and torn, and storm'd from heaven: But if withheld, in pity, from our prayer, We rave, awhile, of torment and despair, Refuse each proffered comfort with disdain, And slight the thousand blessings that remain; Meantime, Heaven bears the grievous wrong, and waits In patient pity till the storm abates ; Applies with gentlest hand the healing balm, Or speaks the ruffled mind into a calm; Deigning, perhaps, to show the mourner soon, 'T was special mercy that denied the boon. Our blasted hopes, our aims and wishes crost Are worth the tears and agonies they cost; When the poor mind, by fruitless efforts spent, With food and raiment learns to be content. Bounding with youthful hope, the restless mind Leaves that divine monition far behind; But tamed at length by suffering, comprehends That 'tis not fitted, and would strangely grace Is calm contentment with "the common lot." ACCOMPLISHMENT. How is it that masters, and science, and art, A youth may have studied, and travelled abroad, That drapery wrought by the leisurely fair, Wherein every tint of the rainbow appears, And stars to adorn it are forced from their spheres. There glows a bright pattern (a sprig, or a spot) But when all is finished, this labor of years, 'Tis thus Education, (so called in our schools,) See French and Italian spread out on her lap; Sewed down in her place by her finger and thumb. And then, for completing her fanciful robes, Thus Science distorted, and torn into bits, |