Dark indeed would be the morrow When, apart we sadly roam, If beyond this world of sorrow We could see no happier home.

But we've heard a joyful story Of a land that's bright and fair, And we hope to share its glory, And to meet each other there.

Swiftly onward to the ocean Roll the troubled waves of time, Bearing us with every motion Nearer to the blessed clime.

Soon the tears that now are starting With their causes will be o'er; Soon the hands now clasped in parting Will be joined forevermore.

We have shared one home together, We have sat around one board; And we'll find a home together In the Paradise restored!

WHAT THE DAUGHTER OF THE CLOUD SAID.

Down the spout a torrent gushed, to be pent up in an old, dark tub, and made the slave of the washerwoman. Would it not have been better for thee, O water, to have fallen in the beautiful forest? to lie in the bosom of the lily, or become a looking gla.s.s for the many colored insects? "I would be useful," whispered the daughter of the cloud, "therefore I have stooped to an humble action--I left the abode of the lightning. My lot is a lowly one; my life full of sorrow and humiliation. I must pa.s.s through a fiery ordeal; I must be cast out and despised by those whom I have served. But then will be the time of my exaltation: the blessed Sun will take pity upon me, and make me a gem of beauty in the angels' highway!"

[Though no application has been made of this similitude, yet the truth designed to be taught is easily gathered: The Christian may be called to many a lowly act--to a ministration which will subject him to reproach and suffering here, but the day of exaltation is sure to come. "He that humbleth himself shall be exalted." The day hastens when from the heavens the Saviour will descend, "who will transform the body of our humiliation, that it may be conformed to the body of his glory."--Phil. 3:21 (_Am. Bible Union Trans._). How glorious will the humble workers of earth appear when they are beautified by the Sun of righteousness in the resurrection morning! That will be all Easter day of surpa.s.sing loveliness.]

THIS IS NOT HOME.

This is not home! from o'er the stormy sea Bright birds of pa.s.sage wing their way to me; They bear a message from the loved and lost Who tried the angry waves and safely crossed, And now in homelike mansions find repose Where billows never roar nor tempest blows.

As strangers here in foreign lands we roam, Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home?

A thousand snares beset our th.o.r.n.y way, And night is round us--why not wish for day?

The storm is high, beneath its wintry wing The blossom fades--oh, why not wish for Spring?

The waters roll o'er treasures buried deep, And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep-- Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain, And things that charm can never charm again, On every brow we mark the hand of time, Oh, why not long for the celestial clime?

Wave after wave rolls inward to the land, Then comes the wail and then the parting hand, And those for whom we would have freely died Are borne away upon the ebbing tide; We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore, It mocks our grief--and takes one idol more.

'Tis well for us that ties which bind the heart Too strongly here are rudely snapped apart; 'Tis well the pitcher at the fountain breaks, The golden bowl is shattered for our sakes, To show how frail and fleeting all we love, To raise our souls to lasting things above.

We are but pilgrims--like the tribes who roam In every land but call no land their home,-- And what their ancient Canaan is to them, So is to us the New Jerusalem; Then while our hopes, our hearts, our homes are there, "_Thy Kingdom come_" must be our fervent prayer!

THE SOUL'S CONSOLATION.

Ah, well it is for thee that there is one ear that will listen, one eye that pities, one heart that will take thee in--"Thou G.o.d seest me!" Was ever consolation contained in so few words? Oh, repeat it when the heart is breaking--when between thee and every earthly object yawns a gulf dark and impa.s.sable. Thou G.o.d _seest_ me! Thou G.o.d _lovest_ me--lovest _me_! Thou knowest the agony of my spirit: thou knowest what I suffer, and thou must give me strength and grace to endure all, and to say in truth and sincerity, Thy will not mine be done.

"WE SEE THROUGH A GLa.s.s, DARKLY."

We weep when from the darkened sky The thunderbolts are driven, And wheresoe'er we turn our eye Our earthly hopes are riven; But could we look beyond the storm That threatens all before us, We might observe a heavenly form Guiding the tempest o'er us.

The eye that sees, the sparrow's fall, That never sleeps nor slumbers, Beholds our griefs however small, And every sigh he numbers.

The angels fly at his command, With love their bosoms swelling, They lead us gently by the hand,-- They hover round our dwelling.

And when the fading things of earth Our hearts too fondly cherish, Forgetful of their mortal birth, How suddenly they peris.h.!.+

But 'tis in mercy and in love Our Father thus chastises, To fix our thoughts on things above; He strikes, yet sympathizes.

We know not, and we may not know Till dawn the endless ages, Why round his children here below The howling tempest rages; But _this_ we know, that life nor death Our souls from him can sever!

We'll praise him with our latest breath We'll sing his praise forever!

WORDS OF CHEER FOR FAINTING CHRISTIANS.

Poor pilgrim, weary with the toils of life, distressed and afflicted on every hand, persecuted and forsaken by thy fellowmen, hast thou ever fathomed the depths of that glorious declaration, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee"?--Heb. 13:5. Hast thou ever realized that in whatever situation thou mayest be placed--on the mountains of delight or in the vale of humiliation, in sickness or in health, in prosperity or in adversity, in life or in death--thou art under the immediate protection of the great Shepherd of Israel, who never sleeps nor slumbers? The heavens may gather blackness, the storm may come down in fury, but He who whispered, "Peace, be still," to the raging billows, is "the same yesterday, to-day and forever"; and though now invisible his presence is with thee as truly and as really as it was with the timid band of disciples on the stormy sea of Galilee. The same Jesus that walked the streets of Jerusalem,--the pitiful, the affectionate, the tender-hearted,--is an eye-witness of all thy tears, thy trials and temptations. His ear, which was never closed to the cry of the poor and needy, is still open to thy call; and the heart which embraced the whole universe has a place for thee. The fires upon thy altar may have grown dim; the sacrifice may have been the poor and lean of thy flock; but the coals of divine love are bright upon the heavenly altar; and the great Sacrifice--the Lamb without spot or blemish-whispers of Calvary and Gethsemane, and mentions thee in his intercession.

Amazing love! love never to be fathomed. Angels who wait to do his'

bidding, seraphim and cherubim who behold his face in glory, can ye comprehend the height and depth, the length and breadth of the Saviour's love? Ah! angels, and seraphim, and cherubim still bend above the mercy-seat and "desire to look into" these things; but ages on ages of eternity may roll away and the love that bowed the heavens for sinful and degraded mortals shall still remain an unsounded deep!

And this love is for thee--for _thee_--, poor pilgrim. Plunge then deeply into this unfathomable ocean. Fear not to loosen thy hold upon the sh.o.r.e: there is nothing there worthy thy love. Thou art an heir of immortality, and the pleasures which endure for a season should be nothing to thee. Wealth, and honor, and power are only the gildings of a groaning and sin-cursed earth. The shouts of mirth and revelry borne upon the midnight air, are only the prelude to tears and sighs and mourning. Behind thee is the blackness of despair, before thee the everlasting suns.h.i.+ne. Away, away! tarry not to sip water from the broken cistern, for the living fountain gushes forth, clear as crystal; and the invitation is for all: "Ho, every one that thirsteth"

(Isa. 55: 1; Rev. 21:6; 22:17).--_Aug_. 10, 1856.

MISCELLANY.

THE DYING YEAR.

Hark! there comes at midnight hour Sound like funeral knell, Chaining us with magic power, Whispering, "_Farewell_."

'Tis the dying year's last sigh Mingling with the storm; Closes now his hollow eye, Sinks his feeble form.

Still at midnight, dark and lone, Mournful echoes ring, Murmuring in solemn tone, "_Time_ is on the wing."

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY OF G.o.d.

O G.o.d, where art thou? where thy mighty throne?