Sence yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know!
Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in Heaven? 'M-I s'pose so
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.
But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in Heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful, —
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fix'd forever,
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?
Thought they look'd a little sing❜ler.
O, no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is,
Joe, wot makes you look so queer? Here, wake up! O, don't look that way! Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers, you dropp'd 'em Joey! O my God! can Joe be dead?
REVERENCE, DEVOTION, ADORATION.
CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE
Ir must be so, - Plato, thou reason'st well! -
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out an Hereafter,
And intimates Eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works,- He must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world- was made for Cæsar
I'm weary of conjectures,
Thus am I doubly arm'd.
this must end them.
My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This, in a moment, brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die!
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the Sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds!
MICHAEL ANGELO: Translated by WORDSWORTH.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
That quickens only where Thou say'st it may :
Unless Thou shew to us Thine own true way
No man can find it; Father, Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.
Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosen'd from the world, I turn to Thee;
Shun, like a shatter'd bark, the storm, and flee
To Thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine!
My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
My Maker! of Thy power the trace
In every creature's form and face
The wondering soul surveys:
Thy wisdom, infinite above
Seraphic thought, a Father's love
As infinite displays!
From all that meets or eye or ear,
There falls a genial holy fear
Which, like the heavy dew of morn,
Refreshes while it bows the heart forlorn.
Great God, Thy works how wondrous fair!
Yet sinful man didst Thou declare
The whole Earth's voice and mind:
Lord, even as Thou all-present art,
O, may we still with heedful heart
Thy presence know and find!
Then, come what will of weal or woe,
Joy's bosom-spring shall steady flow;
For, though 'tis Heaven THYSELF to see,
Where but Thy Shadow falls, Grief cannot be !
THE CLOSING YEAR.
GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
'Tis midnight's holy hour, and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er
The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds
The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 'tis the knell
Of the departed year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past; yet, on the stream and wood,
With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirr'd
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form,
And Winter with its aged locks, and breathe,
In mournful cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail,
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year,
Gone from the Earth forever.
For memory and for tears.
Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions that have pass'd away,
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale,
Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has pass'd to nothingness.
The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
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