While, far along the west, mine eyes discerned,

Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset burned, The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were turned;

And I, in that great hush, Talked with his angels in each burning bush!

PHOEBE CARY.

NATURE AND THE BOOK.

I HEARD One say but now: "Shut up the book;
For Nature tells the story better still.
The fingered pages have a musty look;
The wide green margin of the mountain rill,
The running notes of ripples on the beach,
The open scroll of the blue firmament,
In loftier language the same lesson teach.
Will not the broader truth thy mind content?
The cover of thy book may be a door

To shut the elder gospel out of sight.
It tells thee only that which was before;
God said, ere it was writ, 'Let there be
light!'

"But few live on the mountain-peaks of thought,

And fewer still keep holy instinct pure: To sin, as unto weakness, hath he brought This lamp, to make the homeward pathway

sure.

Shall we blow out our torch, because the sun Shone yesterday, and will to-morrow shine? Too much of work remaineth to be done, And every gleam we toil by is divine. "Wherefore should he permit these flowers to bloom,

That rays from earth's great luminary break? Because to us its dazzling blaze were gloom: Of ravelled rainbows beauty's web we make. Jewel and blossom, shaded leaf and star, Give no full revelation of the light. Colors but letters of an alphabet are,

Pointing us backward to the primitive white. The common eye needs every tint and tone; The soul of man, much more, God's faintest word.

His glory through our mortal thought hath shone;

When saint or prophet speaks, he still is heard:

And in the revelation of the book,
For surely he most brother-like hath come,-
As in a mirror on his face we look,

So reassured, when Nature seemeth dumb. "Yet will I listen to the ancient voice,

Forever new, that speaks in wind and wave; It is the self-same tale; let me rejoice

In joy that his bewildered children have. For they are glad in him, the God unknown: Oh that they knew the sacred emphasis The word on Nature's loveliness has thrown, And how the world by Christ's face lighted

is,

As if new sunshine brake into the air,

As if fresh odors burst from everything! This book is a wide window, opening fair Into the splendors of immortal spring. Nor shall it now be shut again on earth

Until that city, that dear bride, descends, All souls resound the heavenly marriage-mirth, And all the blindness sin has brought us ends."

LUCY LARCOM.

A THANKSGIVING.

FOR the wealth of pathless forests,
Whereon no axe may fall;

For the winds that haunt the branches,
The young bird's timid call;

But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
Those purer fires on high,

When one by one each human sound
Dies on the awful ear,
Then Nature's voice no more is drowned,
She speaks, and we must hear.

Then pours she on the Christian heart
That warning still and deep,

At which high spirits of old would start
Even from their Pagan sleep,

Just guessing, through their murky blind,
Few, faint, and baffling sight,
Streaks of a brighter heaven behind,
A cloudless depth of light.

Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise,
Through many a dreary age,
Upbore whate'er of good and wise
Yet lived in bard or sage:

They marked what agonizing throes

Shook the great mothers womb; But Reason's spells might not disclose The gracious birth to come;

Nor could the enchantress Hope forecast
God's secret love and power;
The travail pangs of Earth must last
Till her appointed hour;

The hour that saw from opening heaven
Redeeming glory stream,

Beyond the summer hues of even,

Beyond the midday beam.

Thenceforth, to eyes of high desire,
The meanest things below,
As with a seraph's robe of fire
Invested, burn and glow:

The rod of Heaven has touched them all,
The word from heaven is spoken:
"Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall;
"Are not thy fetters broken?

"The God who hallowed thee and blessed, Pronouncing thee all good,

Hath he not all thy wrongs redressed,
And all thy bliss renewed?

"Why mourn'st thou still as one bereft,
Now that the eternal Son

His blessed home in heaven hath left
To make thee all his own?"

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,

Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined, For till you cease my muse forgets to sing. JAMES THOMSON.

NOCHE SERENA.

LUIS PONCE DE LEON was born near Granada, Spain, in 1527, and early became known as a spirited poet as well as a profound student of sacred literature. He was a member of the order of St. Augustine of Salamanca, but rendered himself obnoxious to the Inquisition, and was thrown into prison on the charge of Lutheranism and opposition to the decrees of the Council of Trent. Fifty times was he brought before the high court, and though he made a defence that stands as one of the most admired specimens of Spanish prose, he was condemned to the rack, from which he was rescued by the intervention of powerful friends. He suffered imprisonment for five years, after which he returned to his chair in the university, and continued his lectures without taking any notice of his long absence. His lyrics are considered the finest in the language. He died at Madrigal, Aug. 23, 1591.

WHEN yonder glorious sky, Lighted with million lamps, I contemplate, And turn my dazzled eye To this vain mortal state,

All dim and visionary, mean and desolate,

A mingled joy and grief

Fills all my soul with dark solicitude;

I find a short relief

In tears, whose torrents rude

Roll down my cheeks, at thoughts that will intrude.

Thou so sublime abode,

Temple of light, and Leauty's fairest shrine!
My soul, a spark of God,
Aspiring to thy seats divine,

Why, why is it condemned in this dull cell to pine?

Why should I ask in vain

For truth's pure lamp; and wander here alone,
Seeking, through toil and pain,
Light from the Eternal One,

Following a shadow still, that glimmers and is gone?

Dreams and delusions play

With man; he thinks not of his mortal fate; Death treads his silent way;

The earth turns round; and then too late Man finds no trace is left of all his fancied state.

Rise from your sleep, vain man! Look round, and ask if spirits born of Heaven, And bound to Heaven again,