His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrow to disown;

Yields to His pleasure, and forgets

The choice was not his own.

CAROLINE FRY.

HEAVENWARD!

ONE hymn more, O my lyre!
Praise to the God above,
Of joy and light and love,
Sweeping its strings of fire!

Oh! who the speed of bird and wind
And sunbeam's glance will lend to me,
That, soaring upward, I may find

My resting-place and home in Thee?

Thou, whom my soul, 'midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame

Mysterious Spirit! unto whom

Pertain nor sign nor name!

Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go,
Up from the cold and joyless earth,
Back to the God who bade them flow,
Whose moving Spirit sent them forth.

But as for me, O God! for me,
The lowly creature of Thy will,
Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee,
An earth-bound pilgrim still!

Was not my spirit born to shine
Where yonder stars and suns are glowing?
To breathe with them the light divine,
From God's own holy altar flowing?
To be, indeed, whate’er the soul

In dreams hath thirsted for so long-
A portion of Heaven's glorious whole
Of loveliness and song?

Oh! watchers of the stars at night,
Who breathe their fire, as we the air-
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light,
Oh! say, is He, the Eternal, there?
Bend there around His awful throne
The seraph's glance, the angel's knee?
Or are thy inmost depths his own,
O wild and mighty sea?

Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!
Swift as the eagle's glance of fire,

Or arrows from the archers bow,

To the far aim of your desire!

Thought after thought, ye thronging rise Like spring-doves from the startled wood,

Bearing like them your sacrifice

Of music unto God!

And shall these thoughts of joy and love
Come back again no more to me?—
Returning like the patriarch's dove
Wing-weary from the eternal sea,
To bear within my longing arms
The promise-bough of kindlier skies,
Pluck'd from the green, immortal palms
Which shadow Paradise?

All-moving Spirit!-freely forth

At Thy command the strong wind goes;
Its errand to the passive earth,

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose,
Until it folds its weary wing.

Once more within the hand divine;

Lo, weary from its wandering,

My spirit turns to Thine!

Child of the sea, the mountain stream,
From its dark caverns, hurries on,
Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam,
By evening's star and noontide's sun,
Until at last it sinks to rest,
O'erwearied, in the waiting sea,

And moans upon its mother's breast-
So turns my soul to Thee!

O Thou who bid'st the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind— Mover of all things! where art Thou? Oh, whither shall I go to find

The secret of Thy resting-place?

Is there no holy wing for me,

That, soaring, I may search the space
Of highest heaven for Thee?

Oh, would I were as free to rise

As leaves on Autumn's whirlwind borne—
The arrowy light of sunset skies,
Or sound, or ray, or star of morn,
Which melts in heaven at twilight's close,
Or aught which soars uncheck'd and free
Through Earth and Heaven; that I might lose
Myself in finding Thee!

-Lamartine.

J. G. W.

THY WILL BE DONE!

WHEN I survey life's varied scene,
Amid the darkest hours,

Sweet rays of comfort shine between,
And thorns are mix'd with flowers.

Lord, teach me to adore Thy hand,
From whence my comforts flow,

And let me in this desert land

A glimpse of Canaan know.

And O! whate'er of earthly bliss

Thy sovereign hand denies, Accepted at Thy throne of grace Let this petition rise:

Give me a calm, a thankful heart,
From every murmur free ;
The blessing of Thy grace impart,
And let me live in Thee.

Let the sweet hope, that Thou art mine,
My path of life attend,

Thy presence through my journey shine,

And bless its happy end!

ANNE STEELE, 1760.

NATURE AND MAN.

(WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.)

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

H