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MY ONWARD PATH.

I count this thing to be grandly true;

That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain;

By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night,

Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings

Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way, We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray;

But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

MY ONWARD PATH.

MARIAN LONGFELLOW MORRIS, daughter of the late Stephen Longfellow, was born at Portland, Me, April 1, 1849. She married. May 9, 1876, William F. Morris, of Boston, and now lives in that city. The greater number of the poems of Mrs. Morris were written before her marriage.

AND SO I take mine onward path, alone,
And yet not quite alone if God decree;
The way my Lord hath trod shall be mine own,
And so my strength shall be!

What though it lead through tangled brake and brier,

And sharpest stones shall pierce my wounded feet?

Unto that height if my faint soul aspire

These words mine ear might greet:

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"If thou but follow me through toil and pain,
If thou but take thy cross and follow me,
I will reward thee, when I come again,
For all eternity.

"But if thou wilt not bear thy cross with me. Thou canst not hope to win the victor's prize;

No martyr's crown, no saint's green palm shall be

Thy share in Paradise!”

And so I fain would take mine onward way
In humble imitation of my Lord.
This hope to bear me in it day by day,
His never-failing word!

Aug. 31, 1875.

MARIAN LONGFELLOW.

RELIGION AND BUSINESS.

"And after these things he went forth, and saw a publican named Levi, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he said unto him, Follow me. And he left all, rose up, and followed him."- LUKE V. 27, 28.

YE hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest heaven on earth, Who talk with God in shadowy glades, Free from rude care and mirth; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale :

Say, when in pity ye have gazed

On the wreathed smoke afar,
That o'er some town, like mist upraised,
Hung hiding sun and star,

Then as ye turned your weary eye
To the green earth and open sky,
Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could

dwell

Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel?

But love's a flower that will not die For lack of leafy screen, And Christian hope can cheer the eye That ne'er saw vernal green : Then be ye sure that love can bless Even in this crowded loneliness, Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, Go, - thou art nought to us, nor we to thee, away!

There are in this loud stunning tide

Of human care and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of the everlasting chime;

Who carry music in their heart

Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

How sweet to them, in such brief rest
As thronging cares afford,
In thought to wander, fancy-blest,

To where their gracious Lord In vain, to win proud Pharisees, Spake, and was heard by fell disease, But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake, Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake:

At once he rose, and left his gold;

His treasure and his heart
Transferred, where he shall safe behold
Earth and her idols part:
While he beside his endless store
Shall sit, and floods unceasing pour

Of Christ's true riches o'er all time and
space,

First angel of his Church, first steward of his grace.

Nor can ye not delight to think

Where he vouchsafed to eat,
How the Most Holy did not shrink

From touch of sinner's meat:
What worldly hearts and hearts impure
Went with him through the rich man's
door,

That we might learn of him lost souls to
love,

And view his least and worst with hope to meet above.

These gracious lines shed gospel light
On Mammon's gloomiest cells,

As on some city's cheerless night

The tide of sunrise swells,

Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proud

Are mantled with a golden cloud,

And to wise hearts this certain hope is given:

"No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of Heaven."

And oh! if even on Babel shine

Such gleams of Paradise,
Should not their peace be peace divine,

Who day by day arise

To look on clearer heavens, and scan The work of God untouched by man? Shame on us, who about us Babel bear, And live in Paradise, as if God was not there! JOHN KEBLE.

1827.

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ANDREWS NORTON, a distinguished scholar, controversialist, and cr tic, was born at Hingham, Mass., Dec. 31, 1786, and died at Newport, R I.. Sept. 18, 1853 He is known as the author of a volume on the Nature of God and the Person of Christ, and of a powerful work on the Genuineness of the Gospels.

FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way
Be rough, like that thy Saviour trod ;
Though cold and stormy lower the day,
This path of suffering leads to God.
Nay, sink not, though from every limb
Are starting drops of toil and pain;
Thou dost but share the lot of him,
With whom his followers are to reign.
Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone,
Must bear the sorrows that assail;
Look upward to the eternal throne.

And know a Friend who cannot fail.

CONSTANCY.

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Bear firmly yet a few more days,
And thy hard trial will be past;
Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze,
Thy feet shall rest on heaven at last.

Christian thy Friend, thy Master prayed,
When dread and anguish shook his frame;
Then met his sufferings undismayed,

Wilt thou not strive to do the same?

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Till he the thing and the example weigh:

All being brought into a sum,

What place or person calls for, he doth pay.

Whom none can work or woo,
To use in anything a trick, or sleight;
For above all things he abhors deceit:

His words and works, and fashion too
All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.

Who never melts or thaws

At close temptations: when the day is done, His goodness sets not, but in dark can run : The sun to others writeth laws,

And is their virtue; virtue is his sun.

Who, when he is to treat

With sick folks, women, those whom passions

sway,

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LOSSE IN DELAYES.
SHUN delayes, they breed remorse,
Take thy time while time doth serve thee,
Creeping snayles have weakest force,
Flie their fault, lest thou repent thee.

Good is best when soonest wrought,
Lingering labours come to nought.

Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last,
Tide and winde stay no man's pleasure;
Seek not time when time is past,
Sober speede is wisdome's leasure.
After-wits are dearely bought,
Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time weares all his locks before,
Take thou hold upon his forehead;
When he flies, he turnes no more,
And behind his scalpe is naked.

Workes adjourned have many stayes,
Long demurres breed new delayes.

Seeke thy salve while sore is greene,
Festered wounds aske deeper launcing;
After-cures are seldome seene,
Often sought, scarce ever chancing.

Time and place gives best advice.
Out of season, out of price.

Crush the serpent in the head, Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched : Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill,

Lest it grow against thy will.

Drops do pierce the stubborn flint,
Not by force, but often falling;
Custome kills with feeble dint,
More by use than strength prevailing:

Single sands have little weight,
Many make a drowning freight.

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So he led me to my cottage,

And left me within the door;
But the brightness of his presence
Stays with me forevermore.

I see on the fair, sweet uplands
The pleasant vineyard ground;
And the echo of happy voices

Comes to me, a cheering sound.

I wait for his welcome footsteps;
Perchance they are coming to me.
I watch for his radiant smiling,
That I his face may see.

And this, like a sweet bird, nestles
In my heart, else desolate:
"They also serve who patiently
But fold their hands—and wait."
ANNA MONTAGUE.

COMMISSIONED.

WHAT can I do for thee, Beloved,
Whose feet so little while ago
Trod the same wayside dust with mine,
And now up paths I may not know
Speed, without sound or sign?

What can I do? The perfect life,

All fresh and fair and beautiful, Has opened its wide arms to thee; Thy heaven is over-brimmed and full, Nothing remains for me.

I used to do so many things,

Love thee, and chide thee and caress; Brush tiny straws from off thy way, Tempering with my poor tenderness The heat of thy short day. Little; but very sweet to give ;

And it is grief, or griefs to bear That all these ministries are o'er, And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere, Never can need me more.

And I can do for thee but this:
(Working on blindly, knowing not
If I may please thee better so ;)
Out of my own dull, burdened lot
I can arise, and go

To sadder hearts and darker homes,
A messenger, dear Heart, from thee,
Who wast on earth a comforter;
And say to those who welcome me,
"I am sent forth by her."

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When sun is set, the little stars will shine.

While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish ;
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by;
These fleet afloat while those do fill the dish.
There is a time even for the worms to creep,
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.

The merlin cannot ever soar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase;
The tender lark will find a time to fly,
And fearful hare to run a quiet race.
He that high-growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.

In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe;
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven, to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of
May,

Yet

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when flowers do fade away.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL, D. D.

NOT MINE.

MRS. JULIA C. (RIPLEY) DORR, was born in Charleston, S. C, in 1825, but has lived chiefly in the Northern States. Her present home is at Rutland, Vt. Mrs. Dorr has written much for the periodical press, and several volumes of prose and verse. Her last work is entitled "Friar Anselmo, and other Poems." Her verse is graceful, and shows her love of home and the homely virtues.

IT is not mine to run
With eager feet
Along life's crowded ways,
My Lord to meet.

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