500

I'm sure.

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

What would they do, Mr. Caudle?-Why, do much better without you, I'm certain.

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt; it's my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything! All I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt; for I'm sure no woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say it's very odd.

I'm worn to death

However, there's one comfort; it can't last long. with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may laugh! And I dare say you would laugh! I've no doubt of it! That's your love; that's your feeling! I know that I'm sinking every day, though I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second wife will look after your buttons! You'll find out the difference, then. Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then; for then, I hope, you'll never have a blessed button to your back.

T

NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.

ALKING of sects till late one eve,
Of various doctrines the saints believe,
That night I stood, in a troubled
dream,

And the poor old father tried in vain
A single step in the flood to gain.

I saw him again on the other side,

By the side of a darkly flowing But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked in that blissful spot,
Whether he belonged to the "Church" or

stream.

And a "Churchman down to the river

not.

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;

His dress of a sober hue was made:

My coat and hat must all be gray

I cannot go any other way."

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin,

And staidly, solemnly waded in

And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight,

Over his forehead so cold and white.

But a strong wind carried away his hat;
A moment he silently sighed over that;
And then, as he gazed to the further shore,
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more.

COD of the thunder! from whose cloudy | And fountains sparkle in the arid sands,

IMPROVING ON NATURE.

503

And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam

In streets where broods the silence of the
dead.

The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers
To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers,
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand,
And Abraham's children were led forth for
slaves.

With fettered steps we left our pleasant land,
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves.
The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep,
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep,
In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep,

Where the pale willows shade Euphrates'

waves.

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;
Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children

home;

He that went forth a tender prattling boy
Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall

come;

And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear,

And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare,

And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer,

Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate throne.

IMPROVING ON NATURE.

JOHN RUSKIN.

T was a maxim of Raffaelle's that the artist's object was to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them; as she ever tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim may be deduced from a comparison of her effects; just as if a number of archers had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, and this mark were then removed, we could by an examination of their arrow-marks point out the probable position of the spot aimed at, with a certainty of being nearer to it than any of their spots.

We have most of us heard of original sin, and may perhaps, in our modest moments, conjecture that we are not quite what God, or Nature, would have us to be. Raffaelle had something to mend in humanity: I should like to have seen him mending a daisy, or a pease-blossom, or a moth, or a mustard-seed, or any other of God's slightest work! If he had accomplished that, one might have found for him more respectable employment, to set the stars in better order, perhaps (they seem grievously scattered as they are, and to be of all manner of shapes and sizes, except the ideal shape, and the proper size); or, to give us a corrected view of the ocean, that at least seems a very irregular and improvable thing: the very fishermen do not know this day how far it will reach, driven up before the west wind. Perhaps some one else does, but that is not our business. Let us go down

and stand on the beach by the sea-the great irregular sea, and count whether the thunder of it is not out of time-one,-two:-here comes a well-formed wave at last, trembling a little at the top, but on the whole, orderly. So! Crash among the shingle, and up as far as this gray pebble! Now, stand by and watch. Another;-Ah, careless wave! why couldn't you have kept your crest on? It is all gone away into spray, striking up against the cliffs there-I thought as much-missed the mark by a couple of feet! Another:-How now, impatient one! couldn't you have waited till your friend's reflux was done with, instead of rolling yourself up with it in that unseemly manner? You go for nothing. A fourth, and a goodly one at last! What think we of yonder slow rise, and crystalline hollow, without a flaw? Steady, good wave! not so fast! not so fast! Where are you coming to? This is too bad; two yards over the mark, and ever so much of you in our face besides; and a wave we had so much hope of, behind there, broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white tablecloth of foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods were to dine off it! Alas, for these unhappy "arrow-shots" of Nature! She will never hit her mark with those unruly waves of her's, nor get one of them into the ideal shape, if we wait for a thousand years.

STABAT MATER.

TRANSLATION OF DR. ABRAHAM COLES.

TOOD th' afflicted Mother weeping,
Near the cross her station keeping,
Whereon hung her Son and Lord;
Through whose spirit sympathizing,
Sorrowing and agonizing,

Also passed the cruel sword.

O how mournful and distressed Was that favored and most blessed

Mother of the Only Son!
Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,
While perceiving, scarce believing,

Pains of that Illustrious One.
Who the man, who, called a brother,
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother
In such deep distress and wild?
Who could not sad tribute render
Witnessing that mother tender

Agonizing with her Child?

For His people's sin atoning
Him she saw in torments groaning,
Given to the scourge's rod;
Saw her darling offspring, dying
Desolate, forsaken, crying,

Yield His spirit up to God.
Make me feel thy sorrow's power,
That with thee I tears may shower,
Tender Mother, fount of love!
Make my heart with love unceasing
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing
I may be to Him above.

Holy Mother, this be granted,
That the Slain One's wounds be planted

Firmly in my heart to bide.

Of Him wounded, all astounded,-
Depths unbounded for me sounded,—
All the pangs with me divide.