THE PRAYER OF LAUREOLA.

BY ELIZABETH DOTEN.

GOD! hear my prayer.

Thou who hast poured the essence of thy life
Into this urn, this feeble urn of clay;

Thou who amid the tempest's gloom and strife
Art the lone star that guides me on my way;
When my crushed heart, by constant striving torn,
Flies shuddering from its own impurity,

And

my faint spirit, by its sorrows worn, Turns with a cry of anguish unto thee,

Hear me, O God! my

God!

O, this strange mingling in of life and death,

Of soul and substance! Let me comprehend
The hidden secret of life's fleeting breath,
My being's destiny, its aim and end.

Show me the impetus that urged me forth,
Upon my lone and burning pathway driven,

The secret force that binds me down to earth,

While my sad spirit yearns for home and heaven. Hear me, O God! my God!

The ruby life-drops from my heart are wrung,
By the deep movings of my soul in prayer ;
My words lie burning on my feeble tongue,
Aid me, O Father! let me not despair.
Save, Lord! I perish! Save me, ere I die!
My rebel spirit mocks at thy control,
The raging billows rise to drown my cry,
The floods of anguish overwhelm my soul.
Hear me, O God! my God!

FROM the unseen throne of the Great Unknown,
From the soul of all, I came;

Not with the rock of the earthquake's shock,
And not with the wasting flame,

But silent and deep is my onward sweep
Through the depths of the boundless sky,
I stand sublime through the lapse of time,
And where God is, there am I.

In the early years, when the youthful spheres

From the depths of chaos sprung,

When the heavens grew bright with the new-born light,

And the stars in chorus sung

To that holy sound, through the space profound,

'Mid their glittering ranks I trod ;

For I am a part of the central heart,
Coëqual and one with God.

The world is my child. Though wilful and wild, Yet I know that she loves me still,

For she thinks I fled with her holy dead,

Because of her stubborn will;

And she weeps at night, when the angels light

Their watch-fires over the sky,

Like a maid o'er the grave of her loved and brave;
But the truth can never die.

One by one, like sparks from the sun,
I have counted the souls that came
From the hand divine; - all, all are mine,
And I call them by my name.
One by one, like sparks to the sun,

I shall see them all return;

Though tempest-tost, yet they are not lost,

And not one shall cease to burn.

I only speak to the lowly and meek,

To the simple and child-like heart,

But I leave the proud to their glittering shroud, And the tricks of their cunning art.

Like a white-winged dove from the home of love, Through the airy space untrod,

I come at the cry which is heard on high,

"Hear me, O God! my God!"

THE MIRTHFUL ELEMENT OF LIFE.

BY O. W. WIGHT.

THE human spirit is made up of various elements, whose fluid and measured combination constitutes the unity and harmony of life. Each one of these elements, as humanity develops itself in time and space, is evolved, and becomes one of the characteristics of universal history. According to the latest developments of physical and mental science, each one of these elements has also a corresponding element in nature which it manifests and interprets.

That which we call, for the want of a better name, the mirthful element of life, like beauty and music, is one of the original faculties of the soul. It is not the result of a combination of other elements, neither is it a peculiar mode of mental action. There is no good word for it in our language, perhaps in any language; which shows that the thing itself is not well understood, for language is the best index of thought, manifesting, by its