Where the prospect all before thee
Brighter, clearer, ftill fhall grow.

Then whilft thou art upward haftening, New vifions from new heights to gain, No more fhall how onward vex thee; Duty done, life's path is plain.

Perennial Flowers.

SAINTS.

INFLUENCE.

JOY of my life, while left me here!

And still my love!

How in thy absence thou dost 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, muft paffe

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

As smooth as glaffe;

But these all night,

Like candles, shed

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.

as all other women are

N Is the that to my

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;

God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself fhe dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;

No fimpleft duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindneffes

Which most leave undone or despise ;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteeméd in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though fhe seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

Bleffing fhe is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath fhe ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;

Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made lefs beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never loft its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as ftill
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breaft serene,
Like quiet ifles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh, and fair, and green,

Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

J. R. Lowell.