Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine, Which God has made to bless and gild the earth. How sad 'twould be to see a master's hand

Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute! But oh! what pain when, at God's own command, A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute!

Then hide it not, the music of the soul,

Dear sympathy, expressed with kindly voice, But let it like a shining river roll

To deserts dry,-to hearts that would rejoice. Oh! let the symphony of kindly words

Sound for the poor, the friendless, and the weak; And he will bless you,-he who struck these chords Will strike another when in turn you seek.

STAR-GAZING.

L

ET be what is: why should we strive and wrestle
With awkward skill against a subtle doubt?

Or pin a mystery 'neath our puny pestle,

And vainly try to bray its secret out?

What boots it me to gaze at other planets,
And speculate on sensate beings there?
It comforts not that, since the moon began its
Well-ordered course, it knew no breath of air.

There may be men and women up in Venus,

Where science finds both summer-green and snow; But are we happier asking, "Have they seen us? And, like us earth-men, do they yearn to know?"

On greater globes than ours men may be greater,
For all things here in fair proportion run ;

But will it make our poor cup any sweeter

To think a nobler Shakespeare thrills the sun?

Or, that our sun is but itself a minor,

Like this dark earth-a tenth-rate satellite,
That swings submissive round an orb diviner,
Whose day is lightning, with our day for night?

Or, past all suns, to find the awful center

Round which they meanly wind a servile road Ah, will it raise us or degrade, to enter

1;

Where that world's Shakespeare towers almost to God?

No, no; far better, "lords of all creation"

To strut our ant-hill, and to take our ease;
To look aloft and say, "That constellation
Was lighted there our regal sight to please!"

We owe no thanks to so-called men of science,
Who demonstrate that earth, not sun, goes round;
'Twere better think the sun a mere appliance

To light man's villages and heat his ground.

There seems no good in asking or in humbling;
The mind incurious has the most of rest;
If we can live and laugh and pray, not grumbling,
'Tis all we can do here-and 'tis the best.

The throbbing brain will burst its tender raiment
With futile force, to see by finite light

How man's brief earning and eternal payment
Are weighed as equal in th' Infinite sight.

'Tis all in vain to struggle with abstraction-
The milky way that tempts our mental glass;
The study for mankind is earth-born action;
The highest wisdom, let the wondering pass.

The Lord knows best: He gave us thirst for learning;

And deepest knowledge of His work betrays
No thirst left waterless. Shall our soul-yearning,
Apart from all things, be a quenchless blaze?

A DISAPPOINTMENT.

HER hair was a waving bronze, and her eyes

Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal!

THE OLD SCHOOL CLOCK.

LD memories rush o'er my mind just now

OLD

Of faces and friends of the past;

Of that happy time when life's dream was all bright,

E'er the clear sky of youth was o'ercast.

Very dear are those mem'ries,-they've clung round my

heart,

And bravely withstood Time's rude shock;

But not one is more hallowed or dear to me now

Than the face of the old school clock.

'Twas a quaint old clock with a quaint old face,
And great iron weights and chain ;

It stopped when it liked, and before it struck
It creaked as if 'twere in pain.

It had seen many years, and it seemed to say,
"I'm one of the real old stock,"

To the youthful fry, who with reverence looked
On the face of the old school clock.

How many a time have I labored to sketch

That yellow and time-honored face,

With its basket of flowers, its figures and hands,
And the weights and the chains in their place!
How oft have I gazed with admiring eye,

As I sat on the wooden block,

And pondered and guessed at the wonderful things
That were inside that old school clock!

What a terrible frown did the old clock wear

To the truant, who timidly cast

An anxious eye on those merciless hands,
That for him had been moving too fast!

But its frown soon changed; for it loved to smile
On the thoughtless, noisy flock,

And it creaked and whirred and struck with glee,-
Did that genial, good-humored old clock.

Well, years had passed, and my mind was filled
With the world, its cares and ways,

When again I stood in that little school

Where I passed my boyhood's days.

My old friend was gone! and there hung a thing
That my sorrow seemed to mock,

As I gazed with a tear and a softened heart
At a new-fashioned Yankee clock.

'Twas a gaudy thing with bright-painted sides,

And it looked with insolent stare

On the desks and the seats and on everything old

And I thought of the friendly air

Of the face that I missed, with its weights and chains,

All gone to the auctioneer's block:

'Tis a thing of the past,-never more shall I see But in mem'ry that old school clock.

'Tis the way of the world: old friends pass away, And fresh faces arise in their stead;

But still 'mid the din and the bustle of life

We cherish fond thoughts of the dead. Yes, dearly those memories cling round my heart, And bravely withstand Time's rude shock; But not one is more dear or more hallowed to me Than the face of that old school clock.

WITHERED SNOWDROPS.

THE

HEY came in the early spring-days,
With the first refreshing showers
And I watched the growing beauty
Of the little drooping flowers.

They had no bright hues to charm me,
No gay painting to allure;

But they made me think of angels,
They were all so white and pure.

In the early morns I saw them,
Dew-drops clinging to each bell,
And the first glad sunbeam hasting
Just to kiss them ere they fell.

Daily grew their spotless beauty;
But I feared when chill winds blew
They were all too frail and tender,-
And alas! my fears were true.

One glad morn I went to see them

While the bright drops gemmed their snow,

And one angel flower was withered,
Its fair petals drooping low.

Its white sister's tears fell on it,
And the sunbeam sadly shone;