LONGING. Of all the myriad moods of mind The thing we long for, that we are Still, through our paltry stir and strife, To let the new life in, we know, Perhaps the Longing to be so Longing is God's fresh heavenward will With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still But, would we learn that heart's full scope Our lives must climb from hope to hope, And realise our Longing. Ah! let us hope that to our praise Good God not only reckons The moments when we tread His ways, When we are simply good in thought, JAMES R. LOWELL, 1819— -American. THE SHADOW OF THE HAND. "How varied are life's flowery paths, Thus musing, as in fancy, far My footsteps seem'd to stray Methought some strange mysterious power Impell'd them on their way. It was a shady path I trod, Yet beautiful to see; For there were flowers upon the turf, And birds in every tree. I loved the flowers, their form, their hue, I loved the birds, whose plaintive strains, The clustering shadows of the trees They seem'd to change their forms, each time Yet still methought, as if the path Were some good angel's care,— The figure of a hand I traced A hand, that ever pointed me A way so happy, strange 'twould seem, Yet oft, too oft, I knew not whence, Of music, mirth, and revelry, And I would pause to hear: And through the trees, on either side Bright eyes, and glittering forms,-such sights And they would call in wily tones, But, while the shadow of the hand I could not turn to right or left,— I felt, beneath that hallow'd spell, The air breathed purer,-from the flowers A rarer fragrance given, And through the leaves above I saw All was so sweet within that path, There may be summer paths afar, Not fortune's brightest beams I ask Around my path to play, If Duty with its guiding hand, -American Magazine. THE WEAVER'S SONG. ON merrily speeds the shuttle, boys, No gems we need to deck the brow, For richer far adorn us now— The sweat of honest toil. But while we weave, And time the stave, See all goes fair and well; Depend on this, The warehouse day will tell. 'Tis sweet to see the shuttles play, And hear the flighters speak, On little silvery Saturday, When well we've spent the week. |