CEADLE-TI ME. 
BY KLOKK'CB PERCY. 
Thk glory of the sunset fades asvay 
From the tall church spires of the darkening town, 
And on the waters of the western bay 
The orange tint* are sobering to brown. 
This is the hour when the food mother folds 
Her infant closely to her pillowing breast, 
And kissing oft the little hand* she holds, 
Sings dreamily, and lulls her bate to rest. 
For me, X hold all Fate ha* left to mo, 
—A little golden ripple of fair hair; 
I lay it on my bosom tenderly, 
And try to think my baby nestles there. 
Oh, golden hair I Where is the shifting head, 
The baby brow which once you used to crown ? 
The tender eyes, with all their love unsaid, 
Into whose depths my j earning tout looked down ? 
Oh, happy mother I through your window there, 
I see you clasp and kiss your little child— 
I see the cl nz'n.I aims, the flo sr hair— 
And how, oh, how Mia I 1 be reconciled ? 
The small, soft hand* which tangled down my hair 
Are folded from their play forevermore,— 
The rosy feet Which pattered here and there 
Have danced their la-t across this silent iioor. 
The dainty robes are folded smooth and clean,— 
The half-worn shoes stand empty, side by side— 
The basket that she heaped her playthings in 
Lies half-tilled, as she left it when she died. 
The pot of flowers she carried to and fro, 
Or placed among her toys upon the floor, 
Thrives undisturbed; though fair the blossoms blow, 
No sweet voice coaxes for them any more. 
These are her finger marks upon the pane— 
I guard them with a jealous carefulness; 
And this dear pictured face still keeps its stain— 
The misty halo of her frequent kiss. 
And in theso rooms where once her sweet voice rung, 
Now soaring loud, now softly murmuring, 
There floats the echo of a song half sung,— 
The last my darling ever tried to sing. 
But you, aflur.li with happy motherhood, 
Your child alive and warm upon your arm, 
You look across, into my solitude, 
Aud tell me I must be resigned aud calm:— 
That (Ion is good and kind despite my grief; 
That Ho ha? saved my babe from pain and woe, 
And she is blest. Help Thou mine unbelief— 
Oh Healer. But 1 would that 1 could know 
On what fair angel-bosom rests to night 
The tender cheek I touched go reverently— 
What white-robed spirit robs me of my right, 
And takes my baby’s kiss awayfrom me. 
-»»♦ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MARRIAGE. 
Of divine institutions, Marriage is one of tie 
most beautiful. Not matches of man’s device, 
but those made in lleaven, and sealed with the 
High Priest’s signet ring. 
The little birdling leaves the happy family,— 
those that, with ii tried their new-fledged wings 
in ferial flight, and fluttered back again to the 
poor earth, and the foster birds, which know no 
higher end than that they have accomplished,— 
and seeks the parent nest no more, but with its 
kindly companion starts a little liome-nest of its 
own, henceforth to go where he goes, and he in 
turn to cheer her with his song as she sits 
through the live-long day, watching the while 
with a lover’s eye, his true and constant mate. 
So with marriage; the timid maiden, all unused 
to self-reliance, voluntarily transfers her best and 
dearest affection on earth to an untried heart. 
“Transfers,” I said; no—not transfers; for it is 
not the old love of father and mother, brother ; 
and sister, but u now one, a higher love, that i 
until now has slumbered, and all the more pro- 1 
cions that it is Iresh and now. How akin to that i 
love of Christ, which needs not that we should 
love one kindred less to love Him more. Hence- < 
forth she is no more part and parcel of that I 
home. She goes out from the deal’ old roof-tree, I 
to plant a little tree of her own which shall grow t 
green, and flourish, and put forth its tender i 
branches till it becomes a great tree in the world, i 
and the stranger rests in its kindly shadow. So \ 
with each member of that family. How many j 
roof-trees have been planted; but not all grow \ 
green tty tho rivers of water. Gnarled oaks \ 
there are on barren soils. a 
Then, what new dignity tho young wife finds. I 
What mystic power is there in marriage that so e 
soon transforms the free carelessness of girlhood 
into the composed dignity of woman? Ah! J 
there vs a mystic power. A certain popular nov- o 
eiist. of the day tells us that woman’s soul is ti 
never perfect except united with man’s, and rice o 
versa; that each person has his counterpart in a 
the universe, and if not hero, finds it in the spirit- 
land. If so, how much more divine seems the 
strange relation; how much more sacred the 
marriage vows, and how appropriate that “the 
wife should cleave unto her husband, they twain 
should be one flesh.’’ How like a part of her , t 
being seems the husband, as she, the faithful 
wife, the chosen one. clings to him through good ^ 
and ill all the days of her life; follows him from 
the old world to the new. and from Atlantic's v 
troubled wave to Pacific's shore, iaithfi.il through 
evil and good report, and loving still, though 
disgrace and infamy follow her companion to 
the grave. hl 
Speaking again of this roof-tree — what a vol- 
ume of meaning in the word “home” to the A 
young husband, “if he has been, as it were, a u 
waif on the sea of life, as many have, with not a ]< 
place to rest his heart in; for '’homo’s not merely d 
four square walls;’ no little cosey nook on a few fi 
feet of earth to call his own. How inexpressibly h, 
dear that little cradle of liberty, for he is now pi 
free; free from all obligations to the cold and ,j, 
heartless world for those little kindnesses that In 
nature asks so often. The invalid’s cup of tea p] 
and slice of toast were never half so refreshing T 
when served by stranger hands, and the very hi 
touch of a dear one all his own, drives the pain 
» almost away. No unpleasant tones grate harshly 
I on his ear, but the melody of her voice woos his 
troubled spirit to repose. Such the picture many 
a homeless young man paints to his imagination, 
(and should the reality be lees?) particularly if 
he lias passed some years into the maturity of 
manhood. This longing for home and com¬ 
panionship then begins to increase with years; 
blit, if for various reasons, it Is unsatisfied, after a 
certain age the desire loses its intensity and the 
confirmed bachelor generally dies a morally de¬ 
formed being, and an anomaly in the order of 
Nature. 
Hut vows spoken at the altar are not the only 
marriages recorded in Heaven. Many a de¬ 
spised “old maid” has ono written there, con¬ 
summated, soul with soul, when their hearts were 
young, and fresh, and warm, jubI like other 
hearts. Aunt .Susan is “old and well-stricken in 
years,” and some lightly ask if aim ever were 
young. But she goes to weep by a grave in 
a lonely meadow, an acknowledged mourner 
above, if not below. Yes, she 1 008 young once, 
and her forsaken life grows bright and beautiful 
before us; bright with the great love hid away in 
aer heart, and beautiful with her holy faithful- 
less. She is no more forsaken, but doubly 
dossed. Her other hi iig, uotonly safe with Goo, 
But lila tows were never broken, 
And her trust was uo’er betrayed. ( 
Piflard, N. Y., 1863. Jayh K. Hioby. 
•*-• ■*- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DIFFERENT COLORED GLASSES. 
“Scar a horrid hood!” were the underlined 
r ords that met my ear during u temporary block- 
de of the sidewalk, this morning, on my way to 
ie Post-Office. “Shocking,” was the echo of a 
all-grown male voice as tho crowd moved on 
’f course I know it was my hood. Quite a new 
ylo, and this its first appearance in public, 1 
id anticipated a slight sensation. The office 
■ached 1 was again among the waiting ones, 
pyiug my favorite Emma I opened conver¬ 
sion by directing her attention to the new 
)oks on the opposite shelves. That she saw 
itbout seeing, was evident from the reply, “Hut, A 
rs, M., do tell me where you found such an 
■iginal hood.” “Just out of Mrs. K.’s shop.” 
Possible!” “Do you dislike it?” “No, not * 
raotly. but it’s so new.” “ It’s exceedingly com- ^ 
rtable, too.” “ Yes, with a very neat and mod- ^ 
t air,” added a bachelor friend near us. Kmma ! 
ok a yet more critical survey and thought she'd 1,1 
Irop in at Mrs. 1C.’a." 
Released from the second blockade, I and my C| 
od entered one aud another of the village | J( 
ops, with varied effect. It was “tolerable,” f( . 
eally, not so bad,” “hideous," “terribly anti- ( , v 
ated”—with several other opposing adjec- 
es, some in whispers, others plainly spoken. ^ 
upping completed, 1 turned up street toward 
r good friend Hr. F.’s. Mrs. F. was out, but , iM 
int Kutii and grandma kept good the dear ^ 
tne-Iook of that pleasant parlor, and 1 was J 
id to lay aside my venturous hood and rest 
lil Air. Ai. should call for me. Meanwhile, () j. 
int Ruth had it on for exhibition. “How 
nicely ii feels -so light and yet so warm.” “Let ^ 
me see,” says grandma, “why, it’s just the colors 
and almost tho pattern of one i had the winter ' 
John and I were married—near forty years ago. 
It's beautiful,'' turning it around in a tender, 
caressing way, but with ft look wandering far (n 
back among the forty years agone. “What’s 
this?” inquired the genial Dr., just entering with u> 
Airs. F. “ Why, Rctut, where have you chanced " ^ 
ujion such a sensible head-covering—better than Ht . v 
all my anodynes for neuralgia, and a capital 
insurer against chill-blained noses, (beg pardon,) sav 
faces I mean. Mart, you’d better get.something of 
of this sort for onr ride to T. next week.” “If to 
you are in earnest, I will I am heartily fired of pei 
clouds, hats and zephyr-hoods, tit only for pro- i 
leeiion against zephyrs of a summer's eve: lint pj c 
here comes Air. M.—what will he say?” "So q U; 
full of tho last paper that very likely bo won’t ^li 
even notice it” — but he did. Turning mo w j, 
round like a show figure—“I declare, wife, I crc 
wonder where you found it; it’s ever so much f an 
more becoming than lhal stuck-up shape of vel- j ir , 
vet, ,tc.. you wore down. Really, I haven’t seen | ){l 
you with such a good Color before since those last un , 
autumn chills.” And directly our wheels were p U , 
buzzing merrily over the hard-frozen roads p, 
en route for home. 
Written for Moor®’* Rural New-Yorker. 
MOONLIGHT. 
BY BBU. OLISTOV. 
Giyf., Oh, give me “fairy moonlight,” 
Silvering fonuUir.s, shrines, and towers, 
Chasing now the fleet rloud shadows, 
Lighting detv drop gems for flowers. 
Peeping through Ui> snowy curtain, 
.Just a? eve her ster lamps light— 
Sketching on the flour bright pictures, 
Helping fancy'- “airy flight" 
Grandly are revealed the outlines 
Of some distant mountain’s crest, 
Nearer, hill, and vale, and woodland, 
Tree, aud plant, in beauty rest 
Sweetly sings the merry brooklet 
A s it* drops the moonbeam's light, 
Onward to the boundless ocean 
It is gliding through the night. 
Charming moonlight! how serenely 
It ix falling on the. earth; 
Purely flowing from the fountain, 
Where its liquid beams have birth. 
To our view each stately dwelling, 
Seems magnificent and siern, 
Ami the simplest liam'et lovely, 
Which by moonlight we discern. 
Standing in its softened brightness, 
Dream we, with enraptured eyes, 
Of the holy light tfmt’a streaming 
Over earth from Paradise. 
Anil we fancy it* soft pencils 
Ou the amethystine walls 
And the pearl gates, may hare rested 
Where the light of heaven falls. 
Give me moonlight, “fairy moonlight,” 
Earth to me seems then most pure, 
Heaven more near, more bright and glorious, 
With its raptures which endure 
And iny spirit, oft it longing 
To unfold her wings for flight, 
Where no sun, or moouray’s ncoded— 
Where there falietli no more night. 
Chenango Co., N. Y., 1863. 
A WORD TO POETICAL CORRESPONDENTS. 
Perhaps tny hood will cease to be an oddity. 
Mart has given Airs. K. a hint and ordered her 
own crc now; aud if Emma doesn’t have one in 
time for our grand ride of next week, I have 
over-estimated the power of Bachelor H.’s 
approval. AIartha Mark. ' 
Hudson, Mich., 1863. 
A HOME FOR SALE. 
How much wo dislike to read so sad an 
announcement in the advertising department of a 
paper! Not a house and grounds only, but all 
the brig cherished memories and tender associa¬ 
tions of (he place, that enrich it with a wealth be¬ 
yond the computation of business men, the 
trader: in homesteads and other classes of real 
estate. It is a sorry day for a man—and more so 
for a family—when he is obliged to give up bis 
home and go drifting again over the world. No 
experience like this shocks the sensitive heart. 
All gone—all deserted! The lights shining no 
more in the window. The familiar faces no 
longer pressed against the panes. The fires 
dead and gone out. The smoke no more curling 
from the chimneys. The dear voices will not be 
heard lhcr& again, though the men pass and re¬ 
pass the house daily. Ah, there is needed no 
desolation of a sort like tin's. Ilis must be a 
hard and undeveloped nature that can contem¬ 
plate such a scene without the deepest emotion. 
To lose one’s home, is to lose nearly all that earth 
has to offer of happiness to man. 
It has often occurred to us that a few sugges- 
t lions might be profitably made to the correspon¬ 
dents of the Rural, who address to us their 
r_ poetical compositions in the expectation that 
K their literary productions will be welcomed to 
j its columns. 
We are constantly receiving so large an 
amount of poetic MSS. and propositions to in- 
f crease our obligations in this respect, that it has 
become no small task to read them, and to select 
from Die mass the small portion which we could 
over consent to publish. 
There are, undoubtedly, some who have con¬ 
tributed to our pages who are poets by nature ; 
who write under the inspiration of true poetic 
feeling; aud with judgment and correct taste . 
but we feel obliged to say that many who semi 
’ us their productions furnish unequivocal evi¬ 
dence of such a lack of these qualifications, and 
of a proper culture and acquaintance with the 
art of poetry, as leaves them in ignorance of 
their ineompetonry, ami their inability to excel 
in (his department of composition. 
The readers of tho Rural do not need to be 
informed that we spare neither pains nor expense 
to provide the best selections for its various de¬ 
partments ; and we design uow, as ever, to admit 
to its literary column,s neither prose nor poetry 
which lacks the essentials of good taste, correct 
style and proper sentiment. 
To our poetic correspondents then we would 
say. that the grounds on which we reject many 
of their contributions, and decline their proposals 
to favor us with their communications, will ap¬ 
pear from the following considerations : 
It has been said that the object of poetry is to 
phase. This can hardly be considered an ade¬ 
quate expression of its design and tendency.— 
Although the proper subjects of poetry are those 
which interest the feelings, which admit the ex¬ 
ercise of the imagination aud the creations of 
fancy, yet tho same is true to a certain extent of 
prose composition. To the latter, however, must 
be assigned that which is exclusively didactic 
and instructive, as its chief end; that which is 
purely scientific and practical; and is addressed 
to the faculties of the understanding. Poetry 
seeks not only to please, but also to elevate and 
instruct. It is the happy combination of these 
ends which constitutes its mission and its charm. ‘ 
It has for its domain all objects and ideas from 
Nature and life which are characterized by 
beauty, and which are calculated to awaken sen- ’ 
timent and afford intellectual pleasure. In style 
it is necessarily rhythmical, and its happiest ex¬ 
pressions are simple arid musical. “ The essence 
of verse” says Dr. Johnson, “is regularity:” 
and “ it is by the music of metre that poetry has , 
been discriminated in all languages.” 
If our contributors, for whose benefit we are f 
penning these lines, would study carefully the 1 
masters of the poetic art, they would learu how 1 
essential is coned measure to the perfection of r 
poetical composition. lu a piece lately sent us r 
we find 11, 12 and M syllables. In corresponding j 
lines, with variable accents,—faults which destroy s 
all beauty of rhythm. j 
Then, again, we are ofteu obliged to condemn c 
on account of careless and faulty rhymes. He 6 
who aspires to become a writer of poetr y should 
see to it that he does not make a bungling per¬ 
formance in this respect Although rhyme is but y 
an adjunct of poetry, it is an iinpi itaut one, and, t 
in a language as copious as our oven, it is goner- li 
ally to be brought into requisition. In the piece g 
referred to above, the same rhymes are repeated, h 
with little variation of thought, in two consecu- n 
tive stanzas. This is inexcusable and most disa- h 
grecable tautology. ' ii 
Let it be understood then by all writers for the v 
Rural —for we do not intend at this time to write J 
a critical dissertation upon poetry in general,— 
that it is useless to send us articles on trite and 
tamo subjects. Give us a thought or sentiment 
which is obviously improved and made more 
pleasing by being rendered into verse. The fol¬ 
lowing example from a late number of the U, 
Am. Rev. may serve for an illustration:—“How 
much more effective is the Bcntiraent—‘ there is 
no better time for a man to die. than when he 
Falla a sacrifice for the good of humanity ’—when 
put into poetry thus: 
* Or on the gjJlores high, 
Or in the battle's van, 
Man’s noblest time to die 
Is when he dies for man !’" 
We shall also expect of onr correspondent.? ar¬ 
tistic treatment in their compositions,—correct 
measure; pure language; and such command of 
word3 as will enable them to rhyme, without 
faulty repetitions. 
The English language possesses all the char¬ 
acteristics required by the highest style of poeti¬ 
cal composition. Those who are unacquainted 
with its resources, whose poverty of words obliges 
them to repeat their phraseolgy and their rhymes, 
are unfitted to write acceptable poetry. It has 
been said of the poet Spenser, that “language 
is his kingdom and he rules it like a despot.” 
Also of Milton, “He was master of his lan¬ 
guage in its full extent, and has selected the 
melodious words with such diligence, that from 
his book alone the art of English poetry might 
be learned.” Something of this power must be 
possessed by those who would achieve reputa¬ 
tion and success in this field of literary en¬ 
terprise. 
We hope these suggestions will be considered 
and appreciated. Our avocations aud want of 
time will not permit ns to bestow the labor of 
correction upon many of these MSS., which we 
are constantly receiving. Lot writers give to 
their productions the “ sober second thought." 
If they have written genuine poetry, it will not 
spoil by keeping. If it is capable of being im¬ 
proved, they will secure the benefit of their own 
revision, and save themselves the mortification 
Of being condemned by a tribunal uninfluenced 
by the vanity and the pride of self-complacent 
authorship. 
Written for Wiyotc’r Rural New-Yorker. 
LOST AND FOUND. 
Lost the bright dreams of youth, 
Gone to return no more; 
Th’ unfalt’ring hope and trust 
That filled our hearts of yore: 
The freshness of the heart 
Untouched by griefs or cares, 
The wealth of gen'rous thought 
Youth in its bosom bears. 
With many a heavy sigh 
I mourn these treasures gone; 
What bringetb riper years 
That will for these atone ? 
My heart, no vain regret, 
After the toil and pain 
Of earthly iife is past 
These siiall return again. 
When earthly conflicts cease 
We reach the heavenly shore, 
These treasures shall return 
To bles9 our souls oucc more. 
Then, courage, weak heart, now 
Gon sees ns from above, 
Our paths tho' hard to tread 
Were traced by Him in love. 
Elkhorn, Wis., 1863. B. 0. D. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PRAYER AND BELIEF. 
THE SIEVES OF SOCIETY. 
Youwould not pour precious wine Into a sieve; 
yet that were as wise as to make a confident of 
one of those “ leaky vessels” of society that, like 
corporation water-carts, seems to have been 
made for the express purpose of letting outwhut 
they take in. There is this difference, however, 
between the perforated puncheon and the leaky 
brain; the former lays the dust, and the latter is 
pretty sure to raise one. Beware of oozy-beaded 
people, between whose ears aud mouth there is 
no partition. Before you make a bosom friend 
ol' any man, be sure that he is scorel light. The 
mischief that the non-retentives do is infinite. 
Iri war they often mar tho best laid schemes and 
render futile the most profound strategy. In so¬ 
cial life they sometimes set whole communities 
by the ears, frequently break up families, aud 
are the cause of innumerable misfortunes, miseries 
and crimes. In business they spoil many a prom¬ 
ising speculation and involve hundreds in bank¬ 
ruptcy and min. Therefore be very careful to 
whom you intrust information of vital importance 
to your own interests or to the interests of those 
you hold dear. Every inan has a natural incli¬ 
nation to communicate what he knows; and if he 
does not do 80 , it is because Ids reason j and judg- 
mentarestrong enough to control his inherent pro- 
pt unity. When you find a friend who can exercise 
absolute power over the communicative instinct— 
if we may so term it—wear him in your heart, 
“yea, in your heart of hearts.” If you have no 
such friend, keep your own counsel. 
Worth of what thk World says.— But oh, 
the malignity of the wrong world! Oh, that 
strange lust of mangling reputations which seizes 
on heart? the least, wantonly erucll Let two idle 
tongues utter a tale against a third person, who 
never offended the babblers, aud how tho tale 
spreads, like fire, lighted none knows how, in 
the herbage of an American prairie! Who shall 
put it out? What business have we in the con¬ 
cern of other men's hearts? True or false the 
tale gabbled to us. what concern of ours can it 
be? I speak not of cases to which the law has 
been summoned, which law has sifted, on which 
law has pronounced. Hut how when the law is 
silent, can we assume its verdicts? How be all 
judges, where there haa been no witness-box, no 
cross-examination, no jury? Yet every day we 
put on. our ermine and make ourselves judges— 
judges sure to condemn, and on what evidence? 
That which no court of law will receive. Some¬ 
body has said something to somebody, which 
somebody repeats to everybody.- Bulwer. 
Dangerous Pleasures. —I have sat upon the 
seashore and waited for its gradual approaches, 
aud have soon its dancing waves and white surf, 
and admired that lie who measured it with his 
hand had given to it such life and motion; and I 
have lingered till it.-' gentle waters grew into 
mighty billows, and had well-nigh swept me from 
my firmest footing. .So have I seen a heedless 
youth gazing with a too curious spirit upon the 
sweet motions aud gentle approaches of inviting 
pleasure, till it lms <!< mined his eye and impris¬ 
oned his feet, and swelled upon his soul, and 
swept him to a swift destruction. 
• ♦ 
Diamonds.—A diamond is a diamond, though 
you shall put it on the hand of a beggar; only 
that on the finger of a beggar nobody would be¬ 
lieve it to be a diamond. Does not mendicant 
genius every day offer the “precious jewel in the 
head” for sale, and yet, because the holder is a 
mendicant, does not the world believe the jewel 
to be of no value ? Men have died with jewels 
in their brains; and not until the men were dead 
were the gems owned to be of the true water.— 
J err old. 
i- Tiik prayer of age is powerful. The prayer of 
a child just able to lisp its Savior’3 name is pure, 
q But the prayetf of youth, just merging into 
if strength and stepping upon the stage of action— 
,f either son or daughter—is beautiful beyond com- 
<• pare. The volume as it passes from the heart of 
o the hopeful and gentle over the full tender Tips 
” of virtuous youth rises like sweet incense to the 
t skies. 
Some men prey aud believe. They believe 
i they are to receive an immediate answer to their 
i prayer, and if not answered, they doubt. Now, 
1 God has agreed to answer prayer, (not wicked 
t prayer,) and He will do it He can bo trusted. 
He of all others is sure to perform His vows. 
Men petition an earthly ruler, and wait weeks 
and months for au answer. How can they expect 
God -who lnw the government of the universe— 
j to answer sooner. They allow the earthly ruler 
I to make uniendmenls to their petition, and the 
! answ er comes in a different form than expected. 
Then why not allow God the priviledge of time 
- and amendments in answering your petitions, be¬ 
fore you doubt. If you do 80, the seeming cause 
for doubt will lx- removed. You sometimes ask 
uiniss, and time will show you where you erred 
in asking. Time will give you experience. Every 
day’s knowledge will show you more plainly tho 
follies of your past. Therefore, always include 
in your prayer one standard petition—that He 
who lias an experience from the beginning, will 
give you an understanding, by which you way 
consider your ways and be wise. Let it ever go 
up from your heart at morning noon and night, 
and as you traverse the pathways of life seek for 
a higher, purer iife. Seek for light. Seek and 
you shall find. 0. W. Hoff. 
Augusta, Ill., Jan. 
+■ - -- 
Life is the Seed-Time. —To-day for to-mor¬ 
row; this year for the next Aud as we are reap¬ 
ing what others sowed, let us, as Christians and 
as wise men, sow not only for ourselves, but that 
generations yet unborn shall rise up and call us 
blessed. tYe trust seed is this day scattering, 
which shall be reaped hereafter in that happy 
day when every man shall find in another “ a 
brother aud a friend.” If, then, with the wisdom 
which comes from above, we go forth scattering 
the precious seeds of true bliss and real good, 
how happy for ourselves, and for all that are dear 
to us, in time and eternity. Hnt, let none de¬ 
spair because they cannot sow and reap in the 
same day. Remember the patience of the hus¬ 
bandman, and imitate him in preparing for tho 
golden harvest which will never end. 
Christianity is not the thingof (its and starts, 
but a persistent power. It is not the electric ele¬ 
ment gathered into a jar that sparkles on Sabbath 
when touched by the word of the preacher; but 
like the electric element in the shape of gravita¬ 
tion, binding orbs into harmony, giving fertility 
[ to the poorest soul, and order, blossom, and beau¬ 
ty to all things. The sea-bird will soon scream 
where great capitals stand; and the hoarse voice 
of the raven will be heard where cathedrals and 
churches now are; but the soul—that which is 
really me—never dies; but lives in the brightness 
of gloxy or in the agony of misery forever and 
forever. 
Benefit of Afflictions. —Afflictions are de¬ 
signed to impress the rnindwith its religious obli¬ 
gations, and lead men to Christ If improved by 
Christians, they will contribute to their holiness, 
their activity and zeal, and their advancement in 
the divine life.' If improved by those who have 
been before indifferent to their soul’s interests, 
they will lead them to repentance, and to the de¬ 
votion of their hearts to God in faith and affec¬ 
tion. There is a voice in the providence of God 
which speaks with solemnity, and which it is dan¬ 
gerous to disregard. 
Christian Couf.agk. — Such souls as have 
once been in the arms of God, in the midst of all 
opposition, are as men made all of fire, walking 
in stubble; they consume and overcome all 
hindrances; all difficulties are but as whetstones to 
their fortitude. The moon will run her course, 
though the dogs bark at her; so will all those 
choice souls who have found warmth under 
Christ’s wings run their Christian race in spite of 
all difficulties and dangers. 
-4^4- 
Trouble is often the lever in God’s hands to 
raise us up to Heaven. 
