MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JULY 24. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BEAUTY’S COMMISSION. 
A DREAM. 
BY B. M. PHILLIPS. 
I drkamed, and all the present darkened down 
To primal gloom, and old unshaken night. 
The earth was void and formless, cloudy mists 
Veiled the young world. I groped and strove to see, 
But all was dark, and silence pained my ear, 
’Twas so profound, so motionless and deep. 
Thus while I watched and listened in the gloom, 
I heard a voice, the awful voice of God, 
Sounding like many waters—like the roll 
Of thunders, and the blending chorus-strain 
Of many harpers; and the voice proclaimed 
The end of Chaos reign—eternity— 
That dark, unauswering, mysterious gulf, 
Bridged by his power. Creation's dawn had come;' 
And thus I dreamed. He called from heaven, their home, 
The angel architects, whom He had erst 
Begotten, and had made them wise, and given 
Them power to carry out His plans, and build 
And beautify the halls of Heaven. He called 
Them one by one. First, Power He called, and all 
The mighty angels of his train. They came, 
Beneath their giant tread the universe 
Trembled, and all the lofty halls of space 
Re-echoed back the sound. The startled earth, 
Like a proud steed that knows its master’s voice, 
Swept, to its orbit, turning as it went 
Upon its poles. 1 heard the winds when first 
They woke to life—how gently then they beathed 
Like the young child upon its mother’s breast; 
But as the earth pressed on its destined path 
They grew in strength, and sported with the waves 
That rippled o’er the universal sea. 
And now a light obscure and dreamy came 
Through the dense mists that aye were seething up 
From the dark waves. No glorious sunshine then 
Poured its bright efiluence o'er the watery world 
Clouded and dim. But soon the angel, Power, 
With his Titanic, wonder-working host, 
Bore up the dripping land from out the waves. 
And now again the voice of God I heard 
Biddingstnother angel come to aid 
Power in his work of building up a world. 
Her name was Verdure, with her train she came, 
Her beauty showing not as clear and brilliant then 
As now it doth beneath the sun’s warm ray. 
The maiden hastes to wrap the infant eaith 
With mantling moss, and grass, and ferny trees, 
And with their skillful hands, her maidens shaped 
Each graceful stem, and cut each scolloped leaf, 
But all were of a pale and sickly hue, 
And all the flowers were dull and colorless. 
God called again, and ready at bis call 
Came Animation, architect of life. 
She filled the waves with finny tribes, and bade 
The earth bring forth the beasts that ranged the fields, 
And birds that coursed the air, in earth’s young morn. 
Not such as after ages knew, but strange, 
And leaden-eyed, aud leatbern-lunged, and brown 
Of skin, were all things animate. And so 
The world swept on its murky path, with mist, 
And cloud, and heavy laden air. But now, 
What angel artizan shall next be called 
To fit the earth for man’s abode? My dream 
Bore me away from earth up to the halls 
Of Paradise. I saw the golden streets, 
Lit by an amber radiance, soft, and pure, 
Through which I floated tranquilly alODg; 
And as I bathed me in that heavenly air, 
The holy calm of heaven enwrapped my soul;— 
All pains were gone, and doubts, and fears. The voice 
Of God, the triune Deity, I heard, 
Conversing in the holy tongue of heaven, 
The universal language of the skies, — 
A music sweeter than earth’s sweetest songs. 
And thus the Father spoke. The night of death 
Is past: the cold chaotic ages spent; 
And earth is moving on its pilgrimage; 
Thick vegetation clothes her vales and plains, 
And life, by our creative fiat, throngs 
The land, the air, and all the watery realms, 
But with a cloudy curtain earth is shut 
From the warm, glowing sunlight. Shall there be, 
Ye triune Powers, no brighter glory given 
To earth? or shall the misty gloom enfold 
It still, and man, its lord, no biigh er home, 
No milder air, nor type of heaven, know? 
The bright-eyed angel, she who decked the halls, 
The vales, the groves, the plains, the streets of heaven, 
Sweet Beauty, she who keeps the lovely tints, 
Wherewith she paints the flowers of Paradise, 
Stands near the throne, and with a bowing head, 
An anxious ear, and a beseeching eye. 
Waits the response. And now, again, a voice 
Speaks from the throne of God. The being, man, 
For whom the world was builded up, shall fall. 
Drawn by the tempter’s power, shall disohey 
Our laws most just and good; this we foreknow, 
Shall we then beautify his dwelling place, 
And lavish glories on a doomed world— 
Give shade, and sound, and delicate perfume 
To such a thankless race? Sweet Mercy now, 
Blest attribute of God, with fluie-toned voice, 
Entreating, asked that Beauty might be sent. 
And o’er the world a web of glory weave, 
And man be made with na'ure well attuned, 
To her fair dyes, sweet souuds, perfumes, and tastes. 
TheD, though he fall, as fall he must, his soul 
Might drink delight from Reauty's bounteous hand, 
And see on earth a portraiture of heaveD,— 
That nature, a>e, might point his yearning soul, 
Up to the maker of the glorious world. 
Mercy prevailed, the blest command was given, 
And Beauty sprang with eager wing away, 
And with her flew her glad attendants down 
Through the dark mists of earth. The clouds rolled back, 
And the glad sun embraced the blushing world. 
Then Beauty, with her wonder-working host, 
Hung the bright moon high in the vault of night, 
And crowded all its galleries with stars, 
And sttewed the land with painted, odorous flowers, 
And dip’d the clouds in ever-changing dyes, 
Making earth likest heaven of all the spheres 
That move in worship round the throne of God. 
And thus they strewed the poetriea of sense 
Over the world, that waited for its Lord, 
And each succeeding work excelled the last, 
'Till man was made, then Beauty deemed her work 
Was done She rested, and adoring, praised 
Jehovah, by whose power she wrought. But man, 
No mate had found. Then Brautt gave herself 
At God's command, and, at man’s waking, stood 
Incarnate there, as Woman , Beauty , Eve. 
Bloomington, Ill, 1858. 
Hope is the last lingering light of the human 
heart. It shines when every other is put out Ex¬ 
tinguish it and the gloom of affliction becomes the 
very blackest of darkness — cheerless aud impene¬ 
trable. 
A helping word to one in trouble is often like 
a switch on a railroad track—but one inch be¬ 
tween wreck and smooth-rolling prosperity. — 
Beecher. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorke*. 
MY MOTHER. 
To day is the anniversary of my dear mother's 
death. Twenty-seven long years have passed since 
I stood beside her dying bed and gazed upon her 
loved face, pale and cold, as death laid his icy hand 
upon it And to-day, as I sit in my silent room, 
memory carries me back through the changing 
scenes of many long years to that bedside where 
mourning friends were gathered to hear her last 
farewell. 
I was but a child then, yet my mother’s image 
and that dying scene is graven upon my heart as 
bright as when, with my brother, I stood beside her 
bed and she laid her thin, white hand upon our 
bowed heads and asked the God of the widow to be 
a father to her orphan children. None but God 
knew the agony of her soul as her tear-dimmed eyes 
rested upon us so full of yearning love and tender¬ 
ness, aud she looked far into our future, over the 
rugged way we must go with no loving hand to 
guide, no kind voice to cheer us when all was dark 
and we could see no light beyond. As she gazed 
upon us, the heavy lids closed over her eyes, shut¬ 
ting out forever the love light that had been sun¬ 
shine to our young hearts. Her gentle voice died 
away in prayer, her lips ceased to move. My 
mother was dead. Her weary spirit had plumed 
its wings for heaven, where the weary are at rest. 
We kiBsed her cold lips, but they gave no answer¬ 
ing pressure of love, death had sealed them forever 
and we were orphans—alone in the world; yet how 
little did we realize then what it was to lose a lov¬ 
ing mother. But there is ODe— an aged man whose 
hair is silvered o’er with the frosts of many winters 
— towards whom my heart ever turns in love; for 
he stood with us beside my dying mother, and 
wiped the death damp from her cold brow, pressed 
the last burning kiss of love upon her pallid lips, 
and with all the kindness of his noble heart turned 
with sympathy to her orphan children, bestowing 
upon them the love of a father. May loving hands 
lead him gently down the hill of life, even down to 
the cold river of death, where the loved and lost 
will wait to bear him home. 
We were hlessed with near and dear relatives,hut 
none could fill a mother’s place. When the love of 
my young heart has been lavished on some dear 
one, and met only with coldness and indifference, 
all the warm feelings of youth crushed back, 
starving for love and confidence,—when the world 
has looked so cold and dark, and life so dreary,— 
oh, how I have longed for a mother’s arms to 
enfold me, and her gentle breast to rest my world- 
weary head upon. When languishing upon a bed 
of sickness or bowed beneath the heavy rod of 
affliction, my great heart-cry has been for my 
mother. In hours of darkness and temptation her 
image has been present with me, and her dying 
counsel kept me from sin. And although I have 
wandeied far from the spot where she died, and am 
blessed with a happy home and dear ones to love, 
the village where I spent my childhood, the dear 
old church where she taught me to worship,— its 
tall spires rising far above the bright green trees 
that shade the quiet grave-yard where my father 
and mother rest, side by side—with the burial 
mounds of many loved ones that are sleeping there, 
are hallowed to me. Many long years have come and 
gone since that death-bed scene, but in j oy and in sor- 
row, when life was a burden and the tempter strove 
to lead me in the wrong way, I have seen my mother’s 
eyes resting upon me and heard her low, gentle 
voice calling to me from that heaven where I hope 
to meet her. Janie. 
Neenah, Win. Co., Wis., 1858. 
FEMALE ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 
Every school for young ladies rejoices in its 
teacher of drawing, painting, &c., as well as its 
teacher of music; and, under the hands of those 
individuals, the whole school, as a general thing, is 
desired to pass by teachers and parents. French is 
studied as an accomplishment. The result usually 
is, that when a young lady is “finished off” she 
can play six tunes on the piano; has executed 
three pieces of drawing or painting, which papa 
buys frames for, and hangs up in a parlor for exhi¬ 
bition to visitors; has done a little portfolio of wa¬ 
ter colors, in which the teacher’s hand is frequent¬ 
ly visible; has learned to dance; and has achieved 
a free run of nineteen French phrases, which she 
could not pronounce correctly to save her life.— 
So far, there is nothing but show. Principles have 
not been comprehended, and she has in her hands 
nothing, not even the instruments for winning the 
accomplishments which she and her friends imagine 
she possesses. How many misses can sketch from 
nature? How many, who return home “accom¬ 
plished,” can sketch even the old domicil in which 
they were reared? How many can paint the tiger 
lily that occupies a corner of the garden? How 
many can take a simple piece of music, and play 
or sing it at sight? How many go on from the 
foothold they have achieved and become mistresses 
of the delightful art, soothing the husband when 
weary and alone, or entertaining his friends When 
they call upon him? How many read a French 
book after leaving school? We suppose not one in 
fifty. Their accomplishments are a gilded cheat 
The money spent to obtain them is a dead loss, and 
the time which they have occupied should have 
been devoted to more solid studies, in which three- 
fourths are deficient, from the simple fact that their 
time has been so unprofitably occupied. 
THE IDEAL WOMAN. 
The true woman, for whose ambition a hus¬ 
band's love and her children’s adoration are suffi¬ 
cient, who applies her military instincts to the 
discipline of her household, and whose legisla¬ 
tives exercise themselves in making laws for her 
nursery; whose intellect has field enough for her 
in communion with her husband, and whose heart 
asks no other honors than his love and admira¬ 
tion; a woman who does not think it a weakness 
to attend to her toilet, and who does not disdain 
to he beautiful, who believes in the virtue of glossy 
hair and well-fitting gowns, and who eschews rents 
aud raveled edges, slip-shod shoes and audacious 
make-ups; a woman who speaks low, and does not 
speak too much, who is patient, gentle, intellectual 
and industrious; who loves more than she reasons, 
and jet does not love blindly; who never scolds 
and never argues; such a woman is the wife all 
dreamed of once in our lives, and is the mother we 
still worship in the backward distance of the past. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE POOR MAN’S FUNERAL. 
Bury him gently— poor old man— 
With him has ended life’s short span, 
For him the bell hath tol’d— 
Slowly and solemnly bear him away, 
Calmly will rest his lifeless clay 
In the cold earth’s damp mould. 
Weep with the orphan, sad and lone, 
Cheer their grieved hearts with thy friendly tone, 
Drop thou the pitying tear; 
For them no more will a father toil, 
No more will greet them a father’s smile, 
Dark does the world appear. 
Dead and gone! ah, yes, dead and gone— 
For him, no more, shall the morning dawn, 
Nor shall the sun go down; 
Brightly the flowers o'er his grave will bloom, 
Mournfully winter-winds sigh round his tomb, 
Coldly the skies will frown. 
“ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” 
Give to old mother-earth her trust, 
Its food to the worm resign! 
Harshly the clod on the coffin falls, 
And the dull sound our heart appals, 
For this is thy fate and mine! 
And if this were all—if beyond the tomb 
There arose no sun to disperse the gloom— 
No gladly bright’ning day; 
If there, through ages, in dreamless sleep, 
We must He forgotten, while o’er us creep 
The loathsome worm and decay— 
Dreaded, indeed, would be our doom, 
Darker, still darker would seem the tomb— 
Where could the soul find joy? 
But, thanks be to God! to the eye of faith 
Naught of its terror is left in death. 
Naught can our peace destroy! 
Looking far up beyond the skies, 
Whither the ransomed spirit flies, 
We behold the land of the blest; 
There do the angel-bands appear— 
There entereth in no grief or fear— 
There do the weary rest! 
Weep, then, no longer, sad orphan, Ions, 
God is thy Father—He hears tby moan— 
Kindly He’ll watch over thee; 
Till, triumphant in heaven, thou mayest sing 
“ Conquering Death, oh, where is thy sting? 
Where, oh, Grave, thy victory?” 
Webster, N. Y., 1858. Nellib. 
and then-bat I won’t say anything. On the other 
hand, if I marry Sarah without father’s consent, 
he won't give me the land, I’m afraid—and then 
we shouldn’t have anything. What can I do? 
GETS INDIGNANT. 
Tell Mrs. Churndasher that she will find mutu¬ 
al satisfaction enough here, but I don’t believe 
much in that kind of feeling which is so good and 
kind before folks, or in the papers, but can go to 
work and make a couple of folks miserable for no 
good reason. I believe father wants I should mar¬ 
ry that Miranda Spiteful, bnt I shan’t do it. I 
never’ll marry a woman who is as sharp as cider 
vinegar, and don’t know whether the Assembly 
meets at Albany or Washington, even if she can 
make good butter and cheese. Now do help us, Mr. 
Moore. Tell father he never’ll get to be Supervi¬ 
sor or anything else if he keeps talking about the 
neighbors so. He won’t get over Ibis matter now- 
in a good while. Folks won’tstand it, nor I either. 
Your obedient servant, 
Samuel Plowiiandle. 
P. S. Tell Will Wideswath to come along. I 
should be glad to show him onr part of the state 
of-Matrimony. Tell him not to be too skeptical 
about the women—there are some good ones left 
yet. I know of one, at any rate. s. e. 
YOUNG PLOWIIANDLE IN THE FIELD. 
Kart-Taii. Cottage, Out Here, June 1858. 
Mr. Moorb: —I must say that we, that is Mother, 
Susan, and I, were a good deal astonished at see¬ 
ing father’s letters in the Rural. I acknowledge, 
however, that the first one did a good thing in re¬ 
gard to Susan’s affairs, although the poor girl was 
so mortified at first that she almost cried her eyes 
out about it But Bob Smith is a first-rate fellow, 
whole-souled, open handed, clear-headed, neither 
afraid nor ashamed to be a farmer, and an educated 
one. The other fellows were well enough, what 
there was of them, but there was the trouble—they 
could not raise enough for one man like Bob be¬ 
tween them both. So, on the whole, we are pretty 
well satisfied now, and Bob and Susan are to be 
married next corn-husking. 
But about that second letter, we didn’t like that 
quite so well, or, at least, J didn’t, yet Susan tho’t 
it was all fair play. I should have written to you 
about it before, but it has been hurrying times 
here, planting corn and such like. 
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL. 
Now, Mr. Moore, I shouldn’t have written to you 
about such a matter as this, although father had 
made it all public, if I had not thought* from your 
remarks on that letter, that you were disposed to 
stand up for justice. Father told you I met Sarah 
first at a Donation Visit, (I’ve liked Donations ever 
since,) but he did not tell you how we came to get 
so well acquainted in so short a time. The way of 
it was this. Sarah was sitting away by herself in 
a corner and no one was paying her any attention, 
because sbe was a “ city girl,” I suppose, and they 
thought, like 6ome other folks, that no one could 
“love pigs and chickens” unless they were raised 
among them. But I found out, in trying to relieve 
her loneliness, that,6he was well educated, refined, 
and liked the country above all things. Well, a 
little while afterwards, Parson Small’s wife was 
taken sick and mother sent me up there with a lit¬ 
tle currant wine and some “ fixins” for her. I got 
there just about tea time and they asked me to 
partake, and I did. And if father had eaten that 
supper, (all Sarah’s gettipg,) he would have been 
obliged to allow that some city girls could cook as 
well as some country ones. Well, after a while, 
we were engaged, and never dreamed of any op¬ 
position from our family. You may be sure we 
were a good deal put out by that letter in the 
Rural. I went up there the very nightthe Rural 
came, and found Sarah crying. Poor girl! I - 
but never mind about that 
When we read over those remarks of yours, I 
said to Sarah: —“Now, Sarah, Mr. Moore is a 
first-rate maD, depend upon that, and he is dispos¬ 
ed to see fair play—I just mean to write to him 
and see if I can’t get him to help us.” And she 
thought so too. So that’s how I came to write 
this letter. 
more private and confidential. 
Now, Mr. Moore, I want you to just give us some 
first-rate articles to prove that city folks are just 
as apt to be sensible as country folks, and that a 
woman may know something about books and still 
understand cooking. And I want you to just stir 
father up a little—very gently. You see, father 
has promised to give me that hundred and sixty 
acres of land, “ Out West,” which he got for driv¬ 
ing his team up and down the frontier, when he 
was a boy, in “ war times.” And I was going to 
take Sarah up there this fall, and who knows hut 
I might be Supervisor or something yet 
is puzzled. 
I declare I don’t know what to do. I can’t have 
any heart to go off there and leave Sarah here 
alone to cry and feel uncomfortable. Susan and 
the rest of our young folks keep away from her, 
(you city folks call it sending to Coventry, don’t 
you?) and there isn’t any one but me to stand up 
for her. I believe Bob Smith does pity her, but he 
has to do just as Susan says, till they’re married 
A WORD TO FATHERS. 
We have read a story of a little hoy who, when 
he wanted a new suit of clothes, begged his mother 
to ask his father if he might have it. The mother 
suggested that the boy might ask for himself. “ I 
would,” said the boy, “but I don’t feel well enough 
acquainted with him.” There is a sharp reproof 
to that father in the reply of his son. Many a father 
keeps his children so at a distance from him, that 
they never feel confidentially acquainted with him. 
They feel that he is a sort of monarch in the family. 
They feel no familiarity with him. They fear him, 
and respect him, and even love him some, for chil- 
den cannot help loving some everybody about them, 
but they seldom get near enough to him to feel in¬ 
timate with him. They seldom go to him with 
their little wants and trials. They approach him 
through the mother. They tell her everything.— 
They have a highway to her heart on which thej T 
go in and out with perfect freedom. In this keep¬ 
ing-off plan fathers are to blame. Children should 
not be held off. Let them come near. Let them 
be as intimate with the father as with the mother. 
Let their little hearts be freely opened. It is 
wicked to freeze up the love-fountains of little one’s 
hearts. Father’s do them an injury by living with 
them as straDgers. This drives many a child away 
from home for the sympathy his heart craves, and 
often into improper society. It nurses discontents 
and distrusts which many a child does not outgrow 
in his lifetime. Open your hearts and your arms, 
fathers; be free with your children; ask for their 
wants and trials; play with them; be fathers to 
them truly, and then they will not need a mediator 
between themselves and you.— Valley Farmer. 
OUR COUNTRY’S RESPONSIBILITIES. 
Let it be remembered, that it has ever been the 
pride and boast of America that the rights for 
which she contended were the rights of human 
nature. By the blessing of the Author of these 
rights on the means exerted for their defence, they 
have prevailed over all opposition. * * * * 
No instance has heretofore occurred, nor can any 
instance be expected hereafter to occur, in which 
the unadulterated forms of republican government 
can pretend to so fair an opportunity of justifying 
themselves by their fruits. In this view, the citi¬ 
zens of the United States are responsible for the 
greatest trust ever confided to political society.— 
If justice, good faith, honor, gratitude and all 
the other qualities which ennoble the character of 
a nation, and fulfil the ends of government, be the 
fruits of our establishments, the cause of Liberty 
will acquire a dignity and lustre which it has never 
yet enjoyed; and an example will be set which can¬ 
not but have the most favorable influence on the 
rights of mankind. If, on the other side, our gov¬ 
ernments should be unfortunately blotted with the 
reverse of these cardinal and essential virtues, the 
great cause which we have engaged to vindicate 
will be dishonored and betrayed; the last and fair¬ 
est experiment in favor of the rights of human 
nature will be turned against them; and their 
patrons and friends exposed to be insulted and 
silenced hv the votaries of tyranny and usurpation. 
— James Madison. 
Earth’s Fashions.— Earth’s fashions never have 
changed. Glorious too, the sky above her, in its 
vesture of fadeless blue and studding of blazing 
brilliants. The race run mad after new fashions, 
and brains are racked for new styles. But earth 
wears the ones she wore six thousand years ago.— 
It annually fades, and leaf and bloom drop from its 
field, but the mysterious alchemy of the season re¬ 
touches the garment with the same varied and 
beautiful coloring. Not a leaf, or blade, or flower, 
has changed. The sky has the same blue, and the 
stars are as bright as when they sang together in 
the morning of creation. The lilies of the valley— 
they toil not, neither do they spin — yet the crea¬ 
tions of art cannot vie with their beauty. How 
calmly and how grandly nature marches on to the 
music of the winds, the streams, the songs of birds, 
and the falling of the rain, her night journeyings 
lit by the “lamp on high,” and the sunbeams of the 
daj's, glistening her peaceful armor of flowers and 
foliage and shimmering waters. Her banners rus¬ 
tle in the winds of summer, and in autumn, rent 
but still gorgeousand flaunting, sweeping by to the 
beat of the flail and the reaper's song, and the 
dreamy piping of the crickets in the fields. We 
are glad that earth’s fashions never change.— Wis¬ 
consin Chief. 
Important Advice.— What wars and blood-shed 
might be avoided; how many duels might be pre¬ 
vented; how much strife, contention and bitter 
feeling amongst men might be suppressed; how 
much peace and harmony might exist on this side 
the grave, (even without reference to the tremen¬ 
dous consequences which lie beyond it,) if men in 
their intercourse with each other would constantly 
bear in mind the advice of a distinguished French 
writer, who says:—“Never speak or write when 
you are angry or in a passion, for it is always dan¬ 
gerous to put to sea during a storm.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE CONQUEST OF LOVE. 
Sayior! around that ever-haUow’d name, 
CliDg thoughts too holy aDd too pure for feme. 
Earth has no language fit His praise to siDg, 
Though with His name, vale, mount, and woodland ring; 
And even angels in the courts above, 
Are lost in wonder at His glorious love. 
Hark! a low murmur fells upon the ear— 
’Tis heaven itself the gentle sound to hear; 
The faints bend down from their blest home above, 
To catch those accents of redeeming love, « 
Then bear them hence beyond the realms of air, 
To grace the songs that rise forever there; 
While golden harps the heavenly anthem raise, 
And floods of music waken in His praise. 
“ Forgive them. Father,” lo, the sufferer cries, 
And prays for those by whose dark hands he dies; 
“ Forgive them, Father”—oh, to love bow true! 
“ Forgive them for they know not what they do!” 
“’Tis finish’d" now; oh, man, thy fallen might, 
Might shame the noon day into blackest night! 
Lo, on the cross the holy Savior lies! 
Lo, on the cross the holy Savior diesl 
Nature shrinks back from her accustom’d round, 
Stilled is the air and hush’d is every sound; 
Behold the sun his glory now enshrouds, 
“ In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds;” 
Towards the dust the tottering columns lean, 
And earth, astonish’d, views the wond’rous scene! 
See ever after around Calvary’s brow, 
The beams of glory lingering splendor throw; 
Blest, holy charms surround the sacred spot, 
Where passed those hours now ne’er to be forgot, 
And sweet Siloa’s dews their fragrance shed, 
Where once reposed the weary inderer's head. 
Truth lifts her banner to the azure skies, 
And Faith, exulting, points to where it flies, 
From burning Indus to the frozen pole— 
From where Pacific’s waters wildly roll 
To where the broad Atlantic greets the eye 
Its crested billows heaving to the sky; 
And, gazing at the past and present, views 
The tree of life a wider shade diffuse, 
Till o’er the world its branches shall extend, 
And war and bloodshed, sin and sorrow end; 
The dove of peace shall wing her upward way, 
And heavenly lore pour forth celestial day. 
Hastings, Osw. Co., N. Y., 1858. Rosklia. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
REST IN HEAVEN. 
There are weary days scattered all through this 
life below—days of headaches and heartaches— 
times when we sigh in vain for a place to lay our 
weary heads at rest There are none of us but have 
felt thus care-worn and heart-sick. At such times 
what a peculiar charm there is, in those sweet 
words,—“ Rest in Heaven”—our souls would fain 
fly away to those bright abodes and be forever at 
rest 
When the great waves of sorrow come rushing 
over us like an overwhelming flood, and the light 
of hope gleams but dimly through the sifted 
clouds, we are too prone to murmur at the dealings 
of an ever-merciful Providence. 0, if we would, 
in the dark hours of trial, only look upward with 
the eye of faith we might read on every over¬ 
hanging cloud, in letters of living light—“Rest in 
Heaven.” 
Though we may have to drink large draughts of 
the bitter waters of sorrow, and eat daily of the 
ashen crust of adversity, let us hope for a brighter 
morrow, for soon, if faithful, we shall hear it said 
of us, “ It is enough, come up higher.” The pear¬ 
ly gates of the New Jerusalem will be thrown open 
to admit us to the home of the blest, where “there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, 
neither shall there be any more pain.” Blissful 
assurance. There the weary shall be forever at rest. 
‘•’Tis the blest hope of that bright world, unsullied by de¬ 
cay, 
Buoys my sad soul above its gloom, above its earthly strife, 
And bids me plume my fainting wings for realms of end¬ 
less life.” 
Oxford, N. Y., June, 1858. Mabia. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
Our Heavenly Home. —In hours of meditation, 
when we have obtained a little leisure from neces¬ 
sary occupations, nothing is more delightful to the 
mind than to be allowed to roam through the 
beautiful fields of nature. The little birds singing 
their songs of praise; the butterfly winging from 
leaf to leaf, and the trees eddying to and fro, keep¬ 
ing constant time with the gentle breezes. Then 
I can but exclaim, How great and wonderfal are 
tby works, Oh, Lord! The miDd wanders to Him, 
the Creator of ail things, and wonders, if he baffl 
created such a Paradise here below, what must be 
the great and glorious mansion in Heaven, pre¬ 
pared for his own chosen people? How much 
more happy would be our dying moments if we 
would give time to reflect on Thee “our Father 
who art in Heaven.” But we are too negligent in 
seeking the welfare of the soul—we are too apt to 
say to-morrow—and to many, that morrow never 
comes. When God sees fit to afflict, we are apt 
to think if it is His will to spare, we will give more 
thought to the needs of the immortal within us, and 
thus procrastinate. When will erring humanity 
learn it is useless waiting for the morrow?— Elea¬ 
nor, Rochester, N. Y., 1858. 
The Daily Struggle. —Tf we keep not God's 
grace that he giveth us—if we do not continually 
and daily reform ourselves, and with all diligence 
fashion our lives after His life, it is but right that 
we lose again that we have received. Bat if we 
abide in Him through faith, then hard and unprofit¬ 
able things are light and possible to us; for in 
Him that strengtheneth us we may do all things,— 
Bishop Coverdale. 
Christian Habits of Mind. — “ As for myself,” 
wrote Harriet Newall to an early friend, “ I can say 
that if I never felt the power of religion, yet it is a 
theme upon which I love to converse, write and 
reflect” 
No Compromise. —God does not allow us to part 
with an inch of his ground, though we might 
thereby gain the peaceful possession of all the rest 
T. Hardcastle. 
CnRiST. —Let us present to Jesus the “myrrh’ 
of repentance, the “ frankincense ” of faith, and 
the “gold” of supreme love.— Bums. 
