Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human life may lie,

Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye;

Haply from the o'erhanging shadow, thou may'st stretch an unseen hand,

To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land.

Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou

art near,

Thou may'st whisper words of warning or of comfort in his ear,

Till beyond the border where that brooding mystery bars the sight,

Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light.

Wm. Cullen Bryant.

The Hidden Way.

CANNOT plainly see the way,

So dark the grave is; but I know
If I do truly love and pray,

Some good will brighten out of woe.

For the same hand that doth unbind

The winter winds, sends sweetest showers,

And the poor rustic laughs to find

His April meadows full of flowers.

I said, I could not see the way,

And yet what need is there to see, More than to serve Him as I may,

And trust the Great Strength over me?

Why should my spirit pine, and lean
From its clay house; or, restless, bow,
Asking the shadows if they mean
To darken always, dim as now?

Why should I vainly seek to solve
Free will, necessity, the pall?
I feel, I know, that God is love,
And knowing this, I know it all.

Alice Cary.

T

Home for the Weary.

HERE is an hour of peaceful rest,

To mourning wanderers given; 'There is a tear for souls distressed, A balm for every wounded breast: 'Tis found above-in Heaven.

There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven,-

When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals,
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls,

And all is drear-but Heaven.

There faith lifts up her cheerful eye
To brighter prospects given;
And views the tempest passing by,
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all serene-in Heaven.

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom,
And joys supreme are given;

There rays divine disperse the gloom :

Beyond the confines of the tomb

Appears the dawn of Heaven!

W. B. Tappan.

Hymn to Night.

Suggested by the bas-relief of Thorwaldsen.

ES! bear them to their rest;

The rosy babe, tired with the glare

of day,

The prattler, fallen asleep e'en in his

play;

Clasp them to thy soft breast,

O Night;

Bless them in dreams with a deep-hushed delight.

Yet must they wake again,

Wake soon to all the bitterness of life,

'The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife,

Ay, to the conscience pain:

O Night,

Canst thou not take with them a longer flight?

Canst thou not bear them far

E'en now, all innocent, before they know
The taint of sin, its consequence of woe,
The world's distracting jar,

O Night,

To some ethereal, holier, happier height?

Canst thou not bear them up,
Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim
And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him
Who drank for us the cup,

O Night,

The cup of wrath, for hearts in faith contrite?

To Him, who for them slept

A babe all lowly on his mother's knee,
And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary,

In all our sorrows wept,

O Night,

That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering

light?

Go, lay their little heads

Close to that human heart, with love Divine
Deep-beating, while His arms immortal twine
Around them, as He sheds,

O Night,

On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless might.

Let them immortal wake
Among the deathless flowers of Paradise ;
Where angel-songs of welcome with surprise
This their last sleep may break,
O Night,

And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite.

There can come no sorrow;

The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, For, ever young, through Heaven's eternal years, In one unfading morrow,

O Night,

Nor sin, nor age, nor pain, their cherub beauty blight.

Would we could sleep as they,

So stainless, and so calm, at rest with thee,-
And only wake in immortality!

Bear us with them

away,

O Night,

To that ethereal, holier, happier height!

George W. Bethune.