Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind-
I'll take-my-precious-wife!

The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband, too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid
Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years!"

Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all;
I'll take-my-girls—and—boys!

The smiling angel dropped his pen-
"Why, this will never do;
The man would be a boy again,

And be a father, too!"

And so I laughed—my laughter woke

The household with its noise

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

BE PATIENT.

R. C. TRENCH.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! Put your ear against the earth;
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth-
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way

Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in

the day.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! The germs of mighty thought
Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought;
But as sure as there's a power that makes the grass appear,

Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade time shall be here.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! Go and watch the wheat ears grow—
So imperceptibly that you can mark nor change nor throe-
Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown,
And then again, day after day, till the ripened field is brown.

Be patient! Oh, be patient! though yet our hopes are green,
The harvest fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen.
Be ripening! be ripening! Mature your silent way,

Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on freedom's harvest day!

THE ORDER OF NATURE.

ALEXANDER POPE.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul;

That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,

Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame,

Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees,

Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent;
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,

As full, as perfect in a hair as heart;

As full, as perfect in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt scraph that adores and burns.
To Him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, He bounds, connects and equals all.
Cease, then, nor ORDER imperfection name-
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point. This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.

Submit, in this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear;
Safe in the hand of one Disposing Power,
Or in the natal or the mortal hour.

All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;

All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see;
All Discord, Harmony not understood;

All partial Evil, universal Good;

And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite,
One truth is clear-WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT.

THE PILOT.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

Oh, pilot! 'tis a fearful night-there's danger on the deep;
I'll come and pace the deck with thee-I do not dare to sleep.
"Go down," the sailor cried, "go down; this is no place for thee:
Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be."

Ah, pilot! dangers often met we all are apt to slight,

And thou hast known these raging waves but to subdue their might. "It is not apathy," he cried, "that gives this strength to me; Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be. "On such a night the sea engulfed my father's lifeless form; My only brother's boat went down in just so wild a storm; And such, perhaps, may be my fate; but still I say to thee, Fear not, but trust in Providence, wherever thou may'st be."

THE HEAVENLY SECRET.

GEORGE COOPER.

.Does the dark and soundless river
Stretch so wide-

The homeward-rolling tide

O'er which have crossed

Our loved and early lost

That their unsealed eyes may never see
The further side,

Where still amid this toil and misery

We bide?

Is the realm of their transition

Close at hand

To this, our living land?
Nearer than we dream?

Can they catch the gleam

Of our smiles, and hear the words we speak, And see our deeds?

And, looking deeper than our eyes may seek, Our needs?

Do they mingle in our gladness?

Do they grieve

When ways of good we leave?

Do they know each thought and hope,
While here in shade we grope ?

Can they hear the future's high behest,
Yet lack the power

To lead us from our ills, or to arrest
The hour?

When they find us bowed with sorrow

Do they sigh?

Or when earth passes by,

For them, do they forget

The cares that here beset

Their well beloved? Or do they wait

(Oh, be it thus!)

And watch beside the golden gate

For us?

We are yearning for their secret!

Though we call,

No answers ever fall
Upon our dullard ears

To quell our nameless tears.

Yet God is over all, whate'er may be,
And, trusting so,

Patience, my heart, a little while, and we
Shall know.

A COB-HOUSE.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

Willie and Charley, eight and ten,

Were under the porch in the noonday heat; I could hear and see the little men,

Unseen myself, in the window seat.

Will on a cob-house was hard at work,
With a zeal that was funny enough to me.
At eight, one has hardly learned to shirk-
That comes later, as you will see.

For Charley, by virtue of riper age,
Did nothing but stand and criticise;
His hands in his pockets, stage by stage
He watched the tottering castle rise.

"And now, after all your fuss," says he,
'S'posing it tumbles down again ?"

"O," Will answers, as cool as could be,

"Of course I should build it better then."

Charley shook sagely his curly head,

Opened his eyes of dancing brown,

And then, for a final poser, said,

"But s'posing it always kept tumbling down?"

Will, however, was not of the stuff

At a loss to be taken so;

"Why, then," he answered, ready enough,

"I should keep on building it better, you know."