The den they enter grows a shrine,

The grimy sash an oriel burns,
Their cup of water warms like wine,
Their speech is filled from heavenly urns.

About their brows to me appears

An aureole traced in tenderest light,
The rainbow-gleam of smiles through tears
In dying eyes, by them made bright,
Of souls that shivered on the edge
Of that chill ford repassed no more,
And in their mercy felt the pledge
And sweetness of the farther shore.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE.

T is not growing like a tree,

IT

In bulk, doth make men better be ;

Or standing long, an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May;

Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

I WILL ARISE.

WHO, toiling on the weary round of life,

But feels sometimes,-when all the way is dark,

And mists of sense and clouds of weariness
Close round him, and before him stretches out
Life's journey, an interminable moor,

And all the future like a barren road

Through the long waste of years,—lo, suddenly
The mists rise like a curtain, and he knows
The presence of the everlasting hills;

Height after height, peak after peak revealed;
The filmy downward cataract, the chill
Unearthly whiteness of untrodden snows;

And, somewhere in the space 'twixt them and heaven,
The eagle circling sunward! So his soul
Knows it must quit the smooth ignoble paths,
To tread on rugged heights, scale precipices,

Sway on the trembling bridge which spans the foam,
Creep where the thund'rous avalanche sweeps, the bolt
Shivers the patient rocks, feel the mad winds
Rush round him like a chaos. If he know
Something of new-born joy, yet is it dashed.
With craven chills of fear; fain would he climb,
But looking upward dare not. Then, perchance,
Shines out athwart the gathered clouds of sense
The great sun's awful face; and lo! the snows
Which erewhile showed so cold, so deadly calm,
Redden with a blush of life; the light reveals,
High on the scarpèd cliffs, the giddy paths

Where men have trodden and lived. Then his whole

soul,

Stirred to the deeps of passionate utterance,

Cries loud, 'I will arise, I will arise ;'

And, while the sun shines, climbs. Happy are they
On whom the clouds descend not to blot out

What glimpse they had of heaven. Some men there be
Who, toiling through the mist, ne'er see the sun,
And live a slavish life and know it not,

And die, poor souls! i' the plain. Others there be
Who, when in some chance ray they fain would rise,
The envious clouds shut out the face of heaven,
And they may mount no higher. Fewer still
Girding their loins, without a glance behind,
Mount ever upward in that mystical light,
Above the earth's gross humours, till the air
Grows purer, and the paths which seemed so steep,
Are smoothed before them and they tread the snows,
Where other footsteps few and rare shall come
In the efflux of the ages-storm and cloud

Left far beneath; God shining overhead;

And round them all the changeless calm of Heaven.

SONGS OF Two WORLDS.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts control

PRUNE

That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul,

Ant change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run

In soft luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,
And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favour bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour and fade.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

WORK AND CONTEMPLATION.

THE

HE woman singeth at her spinning-wheel A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarole; She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel Is full, and artfully her fingers feel With quick adjustment, provident control, The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll, Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal To the dear Christian Church-that we may do Our Father's business in these temples mirk, Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong; While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work The better for the sweetness of our song.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

G

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

T chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,

IT

I went sighing past the church across the moor

land dreary

'Oh! never sin and want and woe this earth will leave, And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing

so cheery.

How long, O Lord! how long before Thou come again? Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,

Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christ

mas bells be cheery.'

Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the mere,

Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear

bells ringing,

And a voice within cried- Listen! Christmas carols even here!

Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the

stars and snows are singing.

Blind! I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through

With the thunder of my judgments even now are ringing;

Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do,

Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear thro' it

angels singing.'

CHARLES KINGSLEY.