THE VISION OF THE CROSSES.

In the mild light of evening, the pilgrim stretched himself to rest on the odorous grass, and it was not long till his heavy eyelids fell together. But as he slept a dream bore away his wakeful spirit from the earthly covering of his wearied members. It seemed to him as if the sun's shield which he had seen in the heavenly space, had become the countenance of the Eternal; the firmament seemed his garment, the earth his garment's hem. "Lord," he said, "thou wilt not sure in wrath withdraw thy peace from one whose heart still names thee Father, if to thee he confess his weakness. Right well I know that every one born of woman has here his cross to bear, but it is not the same burden and suffering all men have to endure. My cross is much too heavy. I desire only a burden befitting my strength; I am sinking, Lord, under this too heavy pressure." As thus, in child-like wise, he spake unto the Highest, behold! the storm came rushing along, and he felt himself caught aloft by its power. And as he came to standing ground again, he was in the midst of far-stretching halls, where all around him he saw a countless multitude of crosses. And a voice sounded through that lonesome place, "Lo! here is the magazine of trouble: thou mayst choose for thyself from amid all these crosses." Then he went from one to another, examining each, to prove which was the easiest burden; but could come to no determination. This cross was too large for him, and that one was too heavy, and a third was neither so large nor so heavy, but its sharp-pointed corners galled him exceedingly. And yonder was one, and it cast a glittering light like gold, and it enticed him not to pass it untried; but he found its

weight also corresponding to its golden brilliancy. He had now examined the entire collection, but there was not one that would exactly suit him. He must survey the whole a second time. And now, before overlooked, he remarked a cross that seemed to him more tolerable, and beside that one he stood still at last,-a homely tree of pain, not light, but one that fitted properly his strength and measure. "Lord, if thou wilt," he cried, "let this cross be mine." And as his eyes proved it more attentively, lo! it was the same he had borne before-the same against which he had dared to murmur. He lifted it now, and carried it without complaining. From the German of Chamisso.

SONNET.

"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."

IN youth we dream of joys to come :-regret
For pleasure past is transient as the cloud
That doth but for a passing moment shroud
The summer sun; but care is manhood's debt.
With manhood comes a dreary change; and yet
Ill-health's long twilight, disappointment's shade,
Sorrow's dark night, hopes suddenly o'erset,
Affections baffled, wounded, or betrayed,—
What are they all? The seeds whence often grow
Those triple graces of the saint below;
Faith such as Abraham's, Charity that can
Embrace all human kind, Hope fixed above,-
Fair flowers, that make the selfish heart of man
A garden worthy of the God of love.

W. W. B.

LIGHT'S TEACHINGS.

THE Light is ever silent;

It calls up voices over sea and earth,

And fills the glowing air with harmonies,-
The lark's gay chaunt, the note of forest-dove,
The lamb's quick bleat and the bee's earnest hum,
The sea-bird's winged wail upon the wave.

It wakes the voice of childhood soft and clear;
The city's noisy rush, the village-stir,
And the world's mighty murmur that had sunk,
For a short hour, to sleep upon the down
That darkness spreads for wearied limbs and eyes.
But still it sounds not, speaks not, whispers not!
Not one faint throb of its vast pulse is heard
By creature-ear. How silent is the Light!
Even when of old it waken'd Memnon's lyre,
It breathed no music of its own; and still,
When at sweet sunrise, on its golden wings,
It brings the melodies of dawn to man,
It scatters them in silence o'er the earth.

The Light is ever silent;

It sparkles on morn's million gems of dew;
It flings itself into the shower of noon;
It weaves its gold into the cloud of sunset,—
Yet not a sound is heard; it dashes full

On
yon broad rock, yet not an echo answers;
It lights in myriad drops upon the flower,
Yet not a blossom stirs ; it does not move
The slightest film of floating gossamer,

Which the faint touch of insect's wing would shiver.

The Light is ever silent;

Most silent of all heavenly silences;

Not even the darkness stiller; nor so still;
Too swift for sound or speech it rushes on
Right through the yielding skies, a massive flood
Of multitudinous beams: an endless sea,

That flows but ebbs not, breaking on the shore
Of this dark earth, with never-ceasing wave.
Yet, in its swiftest flow or fullest spring-tide,
Giving less sound than does one falling blossom,
Which the May-breeze lays lightly on the sward.

Such let my life be here;

Not marked by noise but by success alone;
Not known by bustle but by useful deeds.
Quiet and gentle, clear and fair as light;
Yet full of its all-penetrating power,

Its silent but resistless influence;

Wasting no needless sound, yet ever working,
Hour after hour upon a needy world!

Sunshine is ever calm;

There are no tempests in yon sea of beams,
That bright Pacific on whose peaceful bosom
All happy things come floating down to us.
Light has no hurricane, no angry blast,
No turbid torrent laying waste our plains.
Morn after morn goes by, and the fresh light
Pours in upon the darkness, yet no storm
Awakes, no eddy stirs the tranquil glow:
No crested billow rises, and no foam,
Drifting along, tells of some tumult past.

Sunshine is ever strong;

No blast can break or bend one single ray;

LIGHT'S TEACHINGS.

In seven-fold strength it faces wave and wind
Heedless of their opposing turbulence,
It passes through them in its quiet power
Unruffled, and unbroken, and unbent.
No might of armies and no rage of storms
Can turn aside one sunbeam from its path,
Or bate its speed, or force it back again
To the far fountain-head from which it came.

Sunshine is ever pure;

;

No art of man can rob it of its beauty,
Nor stain its unpolluted heavenliness.
It is the fairest, purest thing in Nature,
Fit type of that fair heaven where all is pure,
And into which no evil thing can enter;
Where darkness comes not, where no shadow falls,
Where night and sin can have no dwelling-place.

Sunshine is ever joyous;

Its birthplace is in yon bright orb which flings,
O'er cliff and vale, its wealth of rosy smiles.
Each sunbeam seems the very soul of joy;
No sadness soils it; scattering gladsomeness,
Like a bright angel, onward still it moves.
The very churchyard brightens, as the ray
Alights upon its tombstones, and the turf
Seems strangely heaving to the radiant glow,
As if fore-dating the expected sunrise,
When, at the first gleam of the Morning-star,
The faithful grave shall render up its treasure,

And sunshine, such as earth has never known,

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Shall fill these skies with mirth, and smiles, and beauty,
Erasing each sad wrinkle from their brow,

Which the long curse had deeply graven there.

Kelso.

H. B.