THE CLOISTER.

THOUGHT never knew material bound or place, Nor footsteps may the roving fancy trace: Peace cannot learn beneath a roof to house, Nor cloister hold us safe within our vows.

The cloistered heart may brave the common air, And the world's children breathe the holiest

prayer:

Build for us, Lord, and in thy temple reign!

Watch with us, Lord, our watchman wakes in

vain!

THE WORTH OF HOURS.

BELIEVE not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of hours as they go by.

For every man's weak self, alas !
Makes him to see them, while they pass,
As through a dim or tinted glass:

But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.

Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bowed and bent
In sad unrest and ill-content:

And more, --though free from seeming harm,

You rest from toil of mind or arm,

Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm,

The Worth of Hours.

If then a painful sense comes on
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,-

Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be linked again
By all mere Memory can retain,-

Upon your heart this truth may rise, —
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies.

So should we live, that every hour
May die as dies the natural flower, —
A self-reviving thing of power;

That every thought and every deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future meed;

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop, not destroy,
Far better than a barren joy.

185

THE INGRATITUDE OF THE HAPPY.

SOME murmur when their sky is clear,
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy, gild
The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied.
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made!

WERE THIS WORLD ONLY MADE FOR ME!

UNTHINKING, idle, wild, and young,

I laughed, and danced, and talked, and sung;
And, proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain;
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.

But when the hour of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could sing and dance no more,
It then occurred, how sad 't would be
Were this world only made for me.