That watches o'er the sorrowing spirit here,
And when its weary pilgrimage is done,
Unbars the gates of everlasting life,

And vanishes forever."

Many of our gloomy views we derive from false representations. Even the Psalmist, touched with instinctive horror, says, we walk through the dark valley of death; but by means of a clearer revelation, a new light has arisen: there is now, to the virtuous, no dark valley; when the last pang is over-the last swoon passed-then, and then only, life truly begins.

But there is one question that haunts the mind. If they yet live, why is there no one of all the lovely and beloved that comes to set us at rest, and tell us what is their existence. It were a sufficient reply, that God has willed it otherwise; but he has given us reasoning faculties, and it is our duty to use them, and to this inquiry there are many answers.

We know we cannot lay down life till we have thrown aside this mortal coil; if spirits revisit earth, and who shall say that they do not? they have with us no mutual communication of sense; they may be round about us, but we must have material evidence or we cannot realize it. If they were permitted to return again with bodily organs, why should this change take place? why might not present existence be perpetual? The answer is apparent. Earth would no longer be able to sustain her inhabitants; one generation makes room for another: they come to claim their birthright, immortality, receive their passport, and pass on.

Let us ask ourselves in what does the fear of death consist: is it in the last mortal struggle? there is scarcely any one who has lived to the age of thirty,

LIFE; ITS SEASONS.

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who has not suffered much more than death. Consciousness is often lost to the individual, long after the paroxysms continue, and how often the sleep of death is as tranquil as the sleep of childhood. Is it the doubt of a future existence? Let us not rest with these undefined doubts: let us hunt them from their lurking places: let us pursue them to their extinction. If we believe that Christ has arisen, there can be no doubts but let us also bring to our aid reason and natural evidence: let us draw proofs from the structure of our minds; while the animal nature reaches its perfection and decays, the mind is yet fresh and vigorous; let us draw proofs from the mental capacities so far beyond our present use of time and sense. These all speak of immortality, all point to our home, to Life beyond the Mountains!

LIFE; ITS SEASONS.

LIFE hath its Spring-time! childhood's morn,
When pure is young affection's ray;

Gay are the flowers without a thorn;
And bright the hues of opening day:
Wild music lingers in its bowers-
Grateful the fragrance of its flowers-
And all betokens bliss:

Hope weaves her wild, enchanting song,
And sings, at every path along,

That all shall be like this!
Time's rapid footsteps never stay,—
Life's golden Spring-time speeds away!

Life hath its Summer! ardent now

Is manhood's toil, ambition's sway;

Hope lighteth still the fevered brow,
And sweetly sings the coming day:
Fond are Affection's whispers, bland,
And warm is Friendship's proffered hand—
Summer's horizon fair;

But ah! anon a cloud is seen,

Dark and more dark its threat'ning mien,—
A tempest gathers there!

Sunlight and storm are o'er at last—
Life's fitful Summer-time is past!

Life hath its Autumn! where have fled
Those flattering promises of Spring?
Alas! like withered roses, dead,

Around no sweet perfume they fling:
Hope hath been false as she was fair-
The smile hath fled, and gathering care
And woe around are cast:

Gloomy is life's late lovely bower,
Here falls a leaf-there fades a flower-
And chill the dreary blast!

The showers of ruin fall around

Life's withered foliage strews the ground!

Life hath its Winter! snowy age,
When manhood's noblest vigors fail;
Heavy becomes life's chequered page,
Cold is the wintry, piercing gale:

The faltering step-the trembling limb,
The flagging pulse-the eye-ball dim—
Alike deliverance crave:

Fainter-yet fainter-hark! the breath!-
O haste thee, tyrant angel, Death!

Welcome the frightful grave!

I LOVE YOU, FLOWERS.-TEARS.

'Tis finished! Life's short journey's done,
The sun hath set-the Seasons run!

I LOVE YOU, FLOWERS.

I LOVE you, flowers-I love you, flowers,

You sweetly breathe to me

The fragrance of deserted hours

I never more may see.

I love you flowers-I love you flowers;
For, oh, my heart perceives
The color of its happiest hours
Reflected on your leaves.

I love you, flowers-I love you, flowers—
With you was shared her love,
Which far too fervent to be ours,

Has all returned above.

Your fragrance and your beauty give
Fit emblems of her bloom;
Alas! the moment that you live,

Is transient as her doom!

TEARS.

Оn! give me not unmeaning smiles,

Though worldly clouds may fly before them But let me see the sweet blue isles

Of radiant eyes when tears wash o'er them. Though small the fount where they begin, They form, 't is thought, in many a sonnet, A flood to drown our sense of sin;

But oh! Love's ark still floats upon it.

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Then give me tears, oh! hide not one;

The best affections are but flowers

That faint beneath the fervid sun,

And languish once a day for showers.

Yet peril lurks in every gem,

For tears are worse than swords in slaughter, And bards are still subdued by them,

As hummingbirds are shot with water.

THE RIVAL BUBBLES.

A FABLE.

Two bubbles on a mountain stream,
Began their race one shining morn,
And lighted by the ruddy beam,

Went dancing down 'mid shrub and thorn.
The stream was narrow, wild and lone,
But gaily dashed o'er mound and rock,
And brighter still the bubbles shone,
As if they loved the whirling shock.
Each leaf, and flower, and sunny ray,
Was pictured on them as they flew,
And o'er their bosoms seemed to play

In lovelier forms and colors new. Thus on they went, and side by side,

They kept in sad and sunny weather, And rough or smooth the flowing tide,

They brightest shone when close together.
Nor did they deem that they could sever,

That clouds could rise, or morning wane!
They loved, and thought that love forever
Would bind them in its gentle chain.
But soon the mountain slope was o'er,
And 'mid new scenes the waters flowed,