T cannot be that earth is man's only abiding-place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity, to float another moment upon its surface, and then sink into nothingness and darkness forever. Else why is it that the high and glorious aspirations which leap like angels from the temples of our hearts, are forever wandering abroad, unsatisfied? Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud come over us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave us to muse on their faded loveliness? Why is it that the stars which hold their festival around the midnight throne are set above the grasp of our limited faculties, and are forever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? Finally, why is it that bright forms of human beauty are presented to the view, and then taken from us, leaving the thousand streams of the affections to flow back in an Alpine torrrent upon our hearts?

We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where the rainbow never fades; where the stars will be spread out before us like the islands that slumber on the ocean; and where the beautiful beings that here pass before us like visions will stay in our presence forever!

GEORGE D. PRENTICE.

OES the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

UP-HILL.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours be-
gin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that
door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

IN HARBOR.

ABIDE WITH ME.

"I TOO."

ET us spread the sail for purple islands,

Far in undiscovered tropic seas;
Let us track the glimmering arctic highlands,
Where no breath of men, no leaf of trees
E'er has lived." So speaks the elders, telling
By the hearth, their list of fancies through,
Heedless of the child whose heart is swelling
Till he cries at last, "I too! I too!"

And I, too, O my Father! Thou hast made me
I have life, and life must have its way;
Why should love and gladness be gainsaid me?
Why should shadows cloud my little day?
Naked souls weigh in thy balance even-

Souls of kings are worth no more than mine;
Why are gifts e'er to my brother given,

While my heart and I together pine?

Meanest things that breathe have, with no asking,
Fullest joys: the one-day's butterfly
Finds its rose, and, in the sunshine basking,
Has the whole of life ere it doth die.

Dove, no sorrow on thy heart is preying;
With thy full contentment thou dost coo;
Yet must man cry for a dove's life, saying,
"Make me as a dove-I too! I too!"

Nay, for something moves within-a spirit
Rises in his breast, he feels it stir;
Soul-joys greater than the doves inherit
Should be his to feel; yet why defer
To a next world's veiled and far to-morrow
All his longings for a present bliss?

Stones of faith are hard; oh, could he borrow,
From that world's great stores one taste for this!

Hungry stands he by his empty table,

Thirsty waits beside his empty well

Nor with all his striving, is he able

One full joy to catch where hundreds swell
In his neighbor's bosom; see, he sifteth
Once again his poor life through and through –
Finds but ashes: is it strange he lifteth

Up his cry, O Lord! I too! I too!"

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

NO SORROW THERE.

THIS earthly life has been fitly characterized as a pilgrimage through a vale of

tears. In the language of poetry, man himself has been called a pendulum betwixt a smile and a tear. Everything in this world is characterized by imperfection. The best people have many faults. The clearest mind only sees through a glass darkly. The purest heart is not without spot. All the intercourse of society, all the transactions of business, all our estimates of human conduct and motive must be based upon the sad assumption that we cannot wholly trust either ourselves or our fellow-men. Every heart has its grief, every house has its skeleton, every character is marred with weakness and imperfection. And all these aimless conflicts of our minds, and unanswered longings of our hearts, should lead us to rejoice the more in the divine assurance that a time is coming when night shall melt into noon, and the mystery shall be clothed with glory.