POEMS.

The earnest traveller, who would feed his eye To fullness of content on Nature's charms, Must not forever pace the easy plain. No! he must climb the rugged mountain's side, Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags, Nor fear to plunge in it's eternal snows. And yet, if he be wise, he will not choose To find the doubtful way alone, lest night O'ertake him wandering, and her icy breath Chill him to marble; not alone will risk His foot unwonted on the glassy bed Of rifted glacier, lest a step amiss Should hurl him headlong down some fissure dark, That yawns unseen—thence to arise no more. But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mounts From peak to peak in safety, though with toil. Once on the lofty summit, he beholds A glory in earth's kingdom all undreamed Till now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn, That shut the old horizon down so close; And, lo! a world is lying at his feet! A world without a flaw! What late he held But as discordant fragments, now show forth, From this high vantage ground, the perfect parts Of a harmonious whole! He would not dare To change one line in all that picture marvellous Of hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea, O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all. And thou! If thou would'st truly feast thy soul Upon the things invisible of Him Who made the visible, fear not to tread The awful heights of Thought! not to thyself Sole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride; But following where Faith enlightened leads, Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough, But never toil did win reward so rich As that she findeth here. At every step New prospects open, and new wonders shine! Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains, Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet! Visions of truth and beauty shall arise So multiplied, so glorified, so vast, That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry, "No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I see Lighted forever by the throne of God."

A widow, feeble, old and lonely, Whose flock once numbered many a score, Had now remaining to her only One little lamb, and nothing more. And every morning forced to send it To scanty pastures far away, With prayers and tears did she commend it To the good saint that named the day. Nor so in vain; each kindly patron, George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve, Still mindful of the helpless matron, Brought home her lambkin safe at eve. All-Saints' day dawned; with faith yet stronger, On the whole hallowed choir the dame Doth call—to one she prays no longer,— That day the wolf devoured the lamb!