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Earth not the Sphere of Souls.

'PAR

ARENT of good! since all thy laws are just, Say, why permits thy judging providence Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust ? Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence ? Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls." Thus I; when radiant 'fore my wondering eyes A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: "Blind moralist! is Earth the sphere of souls ?"

B. L. ARGENSOLA, Trans. by HERBERT.

Each hath his Fortune in his Breast.

In vain do men

The heavens of their fortune's fault accuse, Sith they know best what is the best for them; For they to each such fortune do diffuse As they do know each can most aptly use. For not that which men covet most is best, Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse; But fittest is, that all contented rest

With that they hold: each hath his fortune in his breast.

It is the mind that maketh good or ill,
That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor;
For some that hath abundance at his will,

Hath not enough, but wants in greater store;
And other, that hath little, asks no more,
But in that little is both rich and wise;

For wisdom is most riches; fools therefore They are which fortune do by vows devise, Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize. EDMUND SPENSER.

Ere long it Will be Day.

WILL take refuge in my God

From man, and sin, and woe.

Fain would I drop this mortal clod,

To know as angels know;

And love as angels love,

And be as angels pure.

It is all light, pure light above,—
Bliss unalloyed and sure.

But shall I shun the sacred fight
Which good maintains with ill?
No; strong in my Redeemer's might,
Be mine to wrestle still.

Here only, in this strife,

Can I his soldier be:

Here only spend or lose a life

For Him who died for me.

Nor would I too impatient pry

The awful veil within;

Or scan th' appalling mystery

Of God-resisting sin.
Oh, let me be content

For Heaven's own light to stay.

The night, the night, is well-nigh spent:
Ere long it will be day.

CONDER.

Early Calling.

AY, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine Too brightly to shine long; another Spring Shall deck her for men's eyes-but not for thine

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, And the vexed ore no mineral of power; And they who love thee wait in anxious grief Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour: Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, As light winds wandering through groves of bloom

Detach thy delicate blossom from the tree. Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; And we will trust in God to see thee yet again.

WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

THE

Excelsior!

HE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright:
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch! Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint BERNARD
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star!

Excelsior!

HENRY LONGFELLOW.

Even her Foes Wept.

GOD of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat

The fiery winds of desolation flow: Father of vengeance! that with purple feet, Like a full wine-press treadst the world below; The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till Thou the guilty land hast sealed for woe. God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign

The billows of the proud their rage suppress; Father of mercies! at one word of thine

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness!