RESURGAM.

"There is no God," he said, and turned away From those who sought to lead him to the light; "Here is a violet, growing for a day, When winter comes, and all the world is white, It will be dead. And I am like the flower, To-day, here am I, and to-morrow, dust. Is life worth living for its little hour Of empty pleasure, if decay we must?" The autumn came, and under fallen leaves The little violet was hid away. "Dead! dead!" cried he. "Alas, all nature grieves For what she loves is destined to decay. Soon like the violet, in soft, damp earth I shall be hidden, and above my head A stone will tell the record of my birth And of my nothingness when I am dead." Spring came, and from the mold the little flower He had thought dead, sprung up to sweetest bloom. He saw it, and his heart was touched that hour, And grasped the earth-old mystery of the tomb. "God of the flower," he said, with reverent voice, "The violet lives again, and why not I? At last my blind eyes see, and I rejoice. The soul within me was not born to die!"