But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim’s song!

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and

guide;

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN AND HER SON.

WAKE not, oh mother! sounds of lamentation!
Weep not, oh widow! weep not hopelessly!
Strong is His arm, the Bringer of salvation,
Strong is the Word of God to succor thee!

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him:
Hide his pale features with the sable pall:
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him :
Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause

the mourners? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed? "Set down the bier he is not dead but sleeping! "Young man, arise!"

He spake, and was obeyed!

Change then, oh sad one, grief to exultation : Worship and fall before Messiah's knee, Strong was His arm, the Bringer of salvation; Strong was the Word of God to succor thee!

WHAT IS RELIGION? *

Is it to go to church today,

To look devout and seem to pray,
And ere tomorrow's sun goes down
Be dealing slander through the town?

Does every sanctimonious face
Denote the certain reign of grace?
Does not a phiz that scowls at sin
Oft veil hypocrisy within?

Is it to take our daily walk,

And of our own good deeds to talk,
Yet often practice secret crime,
And thus misspend our precious time?

Is it for sect and creed to fight,
To call our zeal the rule of right,
When what we wish is, at the best,
To see our church excel the rest?

* A juvenile production.

Is it to wear the Christian dress,
And love to all mankind profess,
To treat with scorn the humble poor,
And bar against them every door?

Oh, no! religion means not this,
Its fruit more sweet and fairer is,
Its precept's this to others do

As you would have them do to you.

It grieves to hear an ill report,

And scorns with human woes to sport,
Of others' deeds it speaks no ill,
But tells of good, or else keeps still.

And does religion this impart ?
Then may its influence fill my heart!
Oh! haste the blissful, joyful day,
When all the world may own its sway.

16

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

Ir is a place where poets crowned
May feel the heart's decaying, -
It is a place where happy saints
May weep amid their praying:
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence, languish !
Earth surely now may give her calm
To whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue,
Was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope,
A hopeless hand was clinging!
O men! this man, in brotherhood,

Your weary paths beguiling,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, And died while ye were smiling.

And now,

what time ye all may read

Through dimming tears his story, How discord on the music fell

And darkness on the glory,

And how, when one by one, sweet sounds And wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face

Because so broken-hearted;

He shall be strong to sanctify
The poet's high vocation,

And bow the meekest Christian down

In meeker adoration;

Nor ever shall he be, in praise,

By wise or good forsaken;

Named softly, as the household name
Of one whom God hath taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom,
I learn to think upon him,
With meekness that is gratefulness

To God whose heaven has won him
Who suffered once the madness-cloud,
To His own love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along

Where breath and bird could find him;