THE CLOUD VOICE.

ORTAL! on our azure pathway

MOR

Speed we where our errand lies; Each our urn of treasures bearing, Freshening earth with glad supplies.

By no will of ours we rose here,
By no choice of ours we live;
Powers, far, far above our scanning,
Laws inevitable give.

Our snowy forms, in mid-day air,
Our sunset tints of fire,

Our lightning-flash, our thunder-roar,
Obey a mandate higher.

Our sky-course run, our miffion wrought,
Wafted forms we fink to earth,
Till that same Great Power recall us
To another new air-birth.

Thus far onward we together;

For the forms of good and ill,

The events which cluster round thee,
These exist not through thy will.

Yet within thy human bosom
Dwells a force creative too;
Outward circumftance it fashions,

All invefts with its life-hue.

And thy glory lies in ufing,

Right and true, this wondrous ftrength; Soaring where thy chains permit thee, Not murmuring for more length.

In the pride of human reason

Thou haft spurned a finite power, And sought the Eternal Cause of all To grasp in life's fhort hour.

Not to scan thy Father's counsels,
But perform them, is thy task ;

Duty finished

- then the WHY

Of thy being thou 'lt not ask.

Puzzle thee the paths of duty,

As their varied course they run? Oh linger not in wilds of doubt! Strike unto the nearest one.

'T will lead thee to some fairer height, Radiant with celeftial glow,

Where the prospect all before thee
Brighter, clearer, still shall grow.

Then whilst thou art upward hastening, New vifions from new heights to gain, No more fhall bow onward vex thee;

Duty done, life's path is plain.

Perennial Flowers.

SAINTS.

JOY

INFLUENCE.

of my life, while left me here!
And still my love!

How in thy absence thou doft steere

Me from above!

A life well lead

This truth commends,

With quick or dead

It never ends.

Stars are of mighty use: the night

Is dark and long;

The rode foul; and where one goes right,

Six may go wrong.
One twinkling ray,
Shot o're some cloud,

May clear much way,

And guide a crowd.

God's saints are fhining lights: who stays

Here long, must passe

O're dark hills, swift ftreams, and steep ways

As smooth as glaffe;

But these all night,

Like candles, fhed

Their beams, and light

Us into bed.

They are indeed our pillar-fires,
Seen as we go;

They are that citie's fhining spires
We travell to.

A sword-like gleame
Kept man from fin
First out; this beame

Will guide him in.

Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695.

MY LOVE.

OT as all other women are

NOT

Is fhe that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the filver evening ftar,
And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath fhe of her own,
Which leffer souls may never know;