Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Cut off; and for the book of knowledge fair, tained In that obscure sojourn; while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, The dark descent, and up to reascend, Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more Nightly I visit; nor sometimes forget Those other two equaled with me in fate Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, men Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out! So much the rather thou, celestial Light! Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse; that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. 66 JOHN MILTON. WHATEVER IS, IS BEST." KNOW, as my life grows older, And mine eyes have clearer sight, That under each rank Wrong, somewhere There lies the root of Right. That each sorrow has its purpose, By the sorrowing oft unguessed, I know that each sinful action, As sure as the night brings shade, I know that the soul is aided I know there are no errors In the great Eternal plan, I shall say, as I look earthward, ANONYMOUS. 0 LOVE. 'HAT is what we want-love toward God and love toward man. It is said the larks of Scotland are the sweetest singing birds of earth. No piece of mechanism that man has ever made has the soft, sweet, glorious music in it that the lark's throat has. When the farmers of Scotland walk out early in the morning they flush the larks from the grass, and as they rise they sing, and as they sing they circle, and higher and higher they go, circling as they sing, until at last the notes of their voices die out in the sweetest strains that earth ever listened to. Let us begin to circle up, and sing as we circle, and go higher and higher, until we flood the throne of God itself, and the strains of our voices melt in sweetest sympathy with the music of the skies. SAM. P. JONES. THE HERMIT. AR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew. The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well. Remote from men, with God he passed his days, To find if books, or swains, report it right (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew), He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before; Then, with the rising sun a journey went, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey; And skies beneath with answering colors glow; But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way: And, "Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kinds deceived the road; Till each with other pleased, and, loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around. The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved with grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, around; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran; Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of At length some pity moves the master's Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch And when the tempest first appeared to cease, they go; A ready warning bid them part in peace; And, but the landlord, none had cause of With still remark, the pondering hermit view woe; His cup was vanished; for in secret guise, The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, ed, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; In every settling feature of his face, That cup the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of his churlish soul. But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; And much he wished, but durst not ask to The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky; part; |