"Tis thus along Life's rugged path,
With brambles intertwined,
If we but gaze with earnest Hope,
Bright sunshine gleams behind!

So when through Life's dim journeyings,
Our prospects all are drear,
Without a stream of Love to drink,

Or ray of sun to cheer,

We'll cherish Hope,-in Winter seek
Spring's budding germs to find,—

We'll pierce with Faith the clouds of Gloom,
And see the sun behind!

Angels.

"They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;
And all for Love, and nothing for Reward,

O, why should heavenly GOD to men have such regard ?"

SPENSER.

DEAR Mother, ope the casement wide,
That I may feel the breeze,

Which steals the perfume from the flowers
And bloom of chesnut trees.

'Tis long since I have felt the sun,

I'm sure 'twould make me blind,

So through these locks and o'er this brow, Let sweep the welcome wind.

It often brings the scent of flowers
I ne'er shall pluck again,
Sometimes the music of the waves,
That comes across the main ;
It seems to whisper happy thoughts
Of realms above the sky,

Until I feel as though I'd wings,

Yet knew not how to fly.

And when the glowing sunset's gone
And stars are out above,

Full often come bright Angel-forms,
With messages of Love;

They beckon me away with them
To lands of all most blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling
And the weary are at rest.

I grieve to leave you, but I long
To join the Angel band,
Ever to worship CHRIST my GOD,
In that most glorious land:
Mother, I feel my end on earth
Is very near to-day,

Throw wide the casement, that

To GOD may soar away.

my soul

ummer Voices.

"TIS morning-Day's light silver mantle
Is spread abroad over the world;
The sky is bright, blue and as gladsome,
As ever before was unfurled.

The butterfly roams through the meadows,
To sport its gay wings in the light;
The dragon-fly skims o'er the water
E'en like molten silver, though bright.

All nature with gladness rejoices,—
Myriads of praises are heard;
The voice of the murmuring streamlet,-
Songs of the grove-waking bird,-
The hum of the bee as it wanders,
Sipping the sweets from the flowers,—
The soft and melodious breezes
Whispering of joy in the bowers.—

The wind's little voice through the grasses Low bowing their heads to the sod,—

In gratitude's silvery murmur

Sings praises of goodness to GOD:

Man only is failing to render

His thanks to the BEING on high, For health he enjoys and the beauty Of streamlet, and forest, and sky,

Man only forgets that his MAKER,

Can blast at the time that he rears,Can wither the tree in its spring-time, Or let it grow onward for years: Then let us partake of His goodness, And rove 'neath the bright balmy sky, With Nature in unison chorus,

And worship the BEING on high.