Written ter Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ANNA CARTER LEE 
“ Anna Cartkk Lef., the daughter and only child of 
Gen. Lkk, of die rebel army, died recently at Jone8’ Spa,, 
N. C., an outcast from her home because she remained 
true to the flag tinder which her ancestors had won their 
laurels, anil true to the Government that had always treat¬ 
ed her father as a parent treat* a favorite child. 
The rites were o'er: the fading day 
Sent through the gathering gloom 
A quivering, dim, uncertain ray, 
To gild the outcast's tomb. 
There lay, in long and restful sleep, 
A Union Refugee; 
And friend nor kindred came to weep 
O’er Anna Carte n Lkk. 
much good it does us to get a letter from home.” 
It costs but little time, little paper and little 
money to convey many good thoughts to an ab¬ 
sent friend, i reud a letter recently from a young ; 
Lieutenant In Tennessee to his father, in which ; 
he asked him to urge other parents to write to j 
their boys, lie paid “if any of them should! 
present •expenses ’ as an excuse for not writing, 
to tell them he would donate ten dollars for the 
purpose of paying postage.” IVu should write 
often on our own account, also. If we love our 
fathers, brothers and husbands as we should, we 
will feel an anxiety to hear often from them 
Exposed to danger and death daily, we know 
not but each letter may be the last, and if a last 
one should come, we will not regret that we did 
all we could to cheer them in the path of duty, 
Thk Soldier’s Friend 
Morenei, Lenawee Co., Mich., 1863. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
YOUTH’S DREAMING. 
The daughter of a traitor chief, 
No tm\*on mined her name. 
Firm to the last, with secret grief 
She bore her father’s shame. 
Unawed by war al)(l civil strife, 
True until death was she; 
Outcast from all that brighter life— 
Poor Am Cartkk Lee. 
An exile for her country's love, 
From home and kindred driven, 
He saw, who loolcetb from above, 
And called her homo to Heave. 
From martyr-blood. poured out like rain, 
Up-springeth Liberty; 
Thou hast not lived nor died in vain, 
Brave Anna Carter Lee. 
Gouverneur, N. Y., 1863. Hilda. 
ABOUT DRESS. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A MOTHER'S LOVE 
What love exceeds that of a mother? Bright¬ 
est and best of all earthly ties, it sheds a glorious 
effulgence that lightens every nook and corner of 
the home-sanctuary—the focus from which all 
other joys are radiated — and the particular 
planet around which all the lesser lights revolve. 
When that little gotn of immortality first, takes 
up the song of lute, this tore begins —and follows 
on, and on, through every vicissitude, unto death, 
and, if need be, enters the portals of the silent 
land. One seldom forgets the joy and happiness 
experienced beneath the “home roof-tree.”— 
Home thoughts haunt the soul when it would be 
seeking earthly fame, and unconsciously you arc 
retracing, step by slop, the rocky steeps of Life; 
you are dreaming of the cheerful smiles and 
happy tones that fell from “mother’s lips.” 
When the heart was wild in the buoyancy of de¬ 
light she shared largely of your joys, and when 
some little sorrow heaved your bosom, und grief 
for a time held sway, she took you in her em¬ 
brace. and soothed and caressed you until every 
tear was sent back 10 its secret cell. When sick¬ 
ness came, and the fever went burning through 
your veins, she watched by your couch many 
wearisome days and nights with that, untiring 
devotion no one else could possess. Then those 
songs.—1 know you do not forget them,—how 
she rocked your weary limbs in the twilight- 
time. and sang those sweet songs you will never 
have sung to you on earth again, lly her knee 
you received your first impressions of God and 
heaven, and your lisping tongue was there 
taught the lirsi sweet prayer of childhood. Tims 
onward from that happy period a mother's love 
becomes the precious, guiding star to the child 
who carry’s out into the world the likeness of 
her h f< deep unstamped in his bosom,—a model 
of purity and holiness —an ornament beyond 
compare. 
Oh, a mother's love! Measure it not,— bound¬ 
less is it as the sky,—pure, and free as the crystal 
streams, and fragrant gales that once swept 
through the plains of Eden—and warm as the 
genial sun-rays that glitter in the first opening 
flowers of spring. Honor and cherish it as the 
dearest, blessing heaven overdesigned to bestow. 
Let it gild and beautify all the recesses of the 
inner life —emitting that radiant lustre which 
will prove a beacon light to the lost and wander¬ 
ing. Mould and fashion every desire and act in 
the form of that image.—ever blessing that heart 
whose unfaltering love bath inspired within your 
bosom all those longings after true and noble 
greatness, and to which you are indebted, in a 
great measure, for all you are, or can ever hope 
to be. Fannie. 
Huntaburgb, Ohio, 1863. 
“ The first appeal is to the eye,” says an old 
writer, a text from which we might preach a prof¬ 
itable sermon on the subject of dress. We have 
plenty of flippant denunciations of fine clothes 
and an abundance Of grave animadversions on 
the sin and folly of extravagance In apparel, but 
scarcely an essay can be found touching tlm as 
thetics and morale of dress. And yet it is a study 
worthy of rank among the “flue arts,” not less 
than architecture, painting and sculpture. “Dress 
your boy like a blackguard," said a venerable 
man of our acquaintance, “and he will behave like 
one. Dross him like a gentleman, and ho will at 
least try to sustain the character.” it was an ob¬ 
servation of Lavatkr. the great physiognomist, 
that persons habitually attentive to drees, display 
the same regularity in domestic affairs. 
“ Young women,” says he, “ who neglect their 
toilet, and manifest little concern about their ap¬ 
parel, indicate, in this very particular, a disregard 
of order; a mind but little adapted to the details 
of housekeeping : a deficiency of' taste and of the 
qualities which inspire love." “The girl of eight¬ 
een, who desires not to please, will lie a slut and 
a shrew at twenty-five !'' It is a great mistake la 
women to suppose that they may safely throw off 
all care about dress with their celibacy, as if 
wives had less need than mistresses of elegant 
and tasteful apparel. Au old writer says with 
hearty emphasis:—“It is one of the moral duties 
of every married woman always to appear well 
dressed in the presence of her husband. Expen¬ 
sive attire is by no means essential. The sim¬ 
plest muslin gown may evince the woman’s taste 
as truly us the most costly robe of moire antique. 
Bat how rare a quality is good taste! In the 
mere matter [of propriety and harmony of col¬ 
ors. there is material for a treatise (which has yet 
to lie written ) by some one thoroughly proficient 
in the lesthetics of dress. Even the simplest 
laws, though pretty generally understood, are 
constantly neglected. Look at the stunning glare 
of red, which comes from all the bonnets at the 
present moment.—whatever may lie the complex¬ 
ion beneath them 1 An English poem of the last 
century contains some sensible precepts respect¬ 
ing colors. To brunettes the poet recommends 
gay colors—“rose,” “orange,” or oven “scarlet” 
Here is a couplet: 
‘•The lass whoso skli) is like the hazel, brown, 
With brighter colors should o'ercomc her own.” 
To rosy-cheeked girls he permits “blue,” and 
“ the color of the sea.” Cautioning pale women 
against “ vernal hues,” he says quaintly and po¬ 
etically: 
“ Ladies grown pale with aiekneas or despair, 
The sable’s mournful die shonld choose to wear, 
So the pale moon still shines with purest light, 
Clad in the dusky mantle of the night.” 
HY ELLEN C. L. KIHBEL 
In the May-time of life's season, 
In the flushing of youth’s dawn, 
Stand we as the future’s warriors 
Stationed now In lands of song,— 
Lands where spring tides flow and ripple, 
Keeping time to pulso and throb— 
Of the hearts that j earn impatient 
For the paths the brave have trod, 
And before u* in our dream ings, 
Rise the rustle* that shall yield 
All the richness of their beauty 
On our life's wide battle-field. 
Strong, and free, and fair, and holy, 
Are the thoughts that wake within, 
O’er the yearnings and the hopings 
As to gifts the soul shall win. 
Gifts of praise-words fitly spoken, 
Gifts of laurel-crowns and bay, 
Won by brave and earnest striving 
In a long, yet hope-lit way. 
And at last by stainless fingers 
Bouud upon the victor-brow, 
Made as real, and set as signet 
Of the strength just w aking now 
Yet the hushed and solemn twilights 
Bring sometime* a May time cloud;— 
Looking through the dusk that fallctU 
Round the hill tops like a shroud. 
Heart* go outward to the future, 
Asking of the days it keeps, 
Wondering what of love or treasure 
In its fold* of mist may sleep; 
If in crowns that press the forehead 
Thoms are set to pierce the brain, 
If in world praise there's a sweetness 
Shutting out all gall of pain. 
Ah, sad wonder* strike through hoping, 
Dark as clouds o'er sunset skies, 
We’ve no key to try the portals 
Leading where their solving lies. 
But we know, tho 7 winds sweep fiercely 
O’er the germ of fiower or grain. 
Though it perish through its thirsting, 
Where the summer sun drops flame, 
That if God had farther mission 
For the tiny, fading thing, 
He hatl) power to stay its drooping, 
Will to save from perishing. 
So in souls, to which are given 
Gerais of love und hope’s sweet flowers, 
Some may perish in the tempest, 
In the rush of pain's swift showers. 
But they leave no uuworked purpose, 
God hath seen their life and death, 
They have taught an earthly lesson, 
Or have tried onr strength of faith, 
And at last the lips may rnurtnnr, 
That the void they leave behind, 
Filled at first witli “ hitter waters,” 
Holds at last Life's richest wine. 
Charlotte Center, N, Y., 1868. 
--- 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ANGEL’S CHOICE. 
FEMALE CHARACTER. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
WRITING TO THE SOLDIERS. 
I am glad to sco so much interest taken lately 
by tho frfonds of the Rural, in urging people to 
write to our soldiers in the army; for I do think 
that if there is any one thing we neglect more 
than another, it is writing letters to them. 
We make them warm shirts, knit them good 
woolen socks, and send them dried traits and 
other things lor their physical comfort—for which 
they are. no doubt, grateful, and we have done 
no more than our duty: but if we foil to pend 
them a letter wo have neglected an important 
part toward making them happy. Every kind 
letter they get from home makes them feel that 
they are missed there—that they are essential to 
the happiness of the little circle uf friends they 
have left behind, and they will be encouraged to 
try to live true to their countiy and true to them¬ 
selves, that they may hare deeds of valor to 
record, and that those dear ones may have 
nothing to blush for on their account 
I have had some experience in writing letters 
to the soldiers; for I have had three brothers in 
the army, beside other relatives. One has been 
wounded and honorably discharged. The other 
two are with Gen. Hooker, “at home.” they 
say, on the banks of the Rappahannock; I often 
feel pleased at their eagerness to get letters. 
Although I write often, and I know they get 
many letters from other friends, yet they fre¬ 
quently say, “ Write often, you don’t knowhow 
Ladies are greatly deceived when they think 
that thoy recommend themselves to the other sex 
by an indifference to religion. Every man who 
knows human nature, connects a religious feel¬ 
ing with softness and sensibility of heart At 
least we always consider the want of it a proof of 
that masculine spirit, which, of all your faults, 
we dislike the most. Beside, men consider your 
religion as the best security for that female vir¬ 
tue in which they are most sensibly interested. 
Never indulge yourselves in ridicule on religious 
subjects, nor give countenance to it in others by 
seeming diverted in what they say. This, to 
people of good understanding, will lie a sufficient 
check. 
Let a woman be decked with all the embellish 
ments of art and the gifts of nature —yet, if 
boldness is to be read in her face, it blots all tho 
linos of beauty. Modesty is not only an orna¬ 
ment, but also a guard to virtue. It is a delicate 
feeling in the soul, which makes her shrink and 
withdraw herself from the appearance of danger. 
It is an exquisite sensibility that warns her to 
shun the approach of everything hurtful. 
A Woman’s Patriotism. —“ I could notanswer 
yes to the question asked me a few days since, 
‘Are you not sorry you did not try to prevent 
your husband's going?’ Ho went from a sense 
of duty, and I never said a word against it 
would give up another dear friend if my country 
needed it, and 1 had one to give, even if it cost 
my own life. God took care of my dear one, 
and did not let him forget his Savior. He has 
died a noble death—a precious legacy to his 
children.” Thus writes a young widow whose 
husband recently (ell in battle, leaving her with 
three young children. Is not this the language 
of true patriotism? Is it not noble ?—Hartford 
CouranL 
There are minds so habituated to intrigue aud 
mystery in themselves, and so prone to expect it 
from others, that they will never accept of a plain 
reason for a plain fact, if it be possible to devise 
causes for it that are obscure, far-fetched, and 
usually uot worth the carriage. 
An earthly Sabbath was dawning, bright and 
cloudless, when the fairest and most beautiful 
angel of light laid his harp at the foot of the 
throne, and on swift, noiseless wing Hought the 
earth. This, his mission- 1 With the most beau¬ 
tiful of yonder earfh take up thy abode: comfort 
and protect, aud when thou art bidden, bring to 
share with thee thy heavenly home.” A moment 
he paused, then, with ft bright smile, he spread 
his wings, and reaching our earth entered the 
house of God. It was the hour of morning wor¬ 
ship, and anxiously he watched each passing 
one, that he might find one who to him was pure 
and beautiful. 
The large congregation passed on. little think¬ 
ing an angel's eye was on them,—was reading 
the thoughts of their inmost hearts. 
Now one pusses him, beautiful in the eyes of the 
world. — strangely, woddrously beautiful,—but 
tho bright cue turned quickly away, for within 
ho saw pride, hatred, and much to destroy her 
beauty. 
Now passes a noble looking one; one who 
should be an honor to the world. He is treated 
with marked respect by all; but he passes 
haughtily along as though conscious of his own 
superiority, and disdains coming in contact with 
with his less favored brethren. But the ange 
loves him not, for he loves not his Maker, whom 
the angel serves. 
Now passes one whom the world calls good,— 
one of holy mein and lordly bearing, a man of 
wealth, learning and honor. Every generous 
thought and holy impulse dwells within his 
bosom, — so the world says, — but the holy one 
turns mournfully away, fur he sees hatred, un¬ 
holy ambition, discontent aud hypocrisy rankling 
deep within his breast. 
There passes a child, fair and beautiful, his 
mild, dewy eyes lindirnmed by tears, his brow 
unruffied by worldly care und anxiety, his lips 
parted with a rich, heavenly smile. All bespeak 
purity of heart, no unholy thing can lie within 
so fair a casket—his tiny feet sorely have never 
yet strayed from the right path. Torn to him 
thou bright one, for in him thou shall find the 
one whom thou aoekest; the one with whom thou 
art to take up thine abode, for he is indeed beau¬ 
tiful. Spread about him thy protecting wing, 
and ever shall he be as beautiful as now. But 
the angel saw what man cannot see—the seeds 
of passion aud discontent are already springing 
up in his heart. 
There enters the “ Shepherd of the flock.” The 
shining one sadly turns toward him, for surely 
here should be an “Israelite indeed, in whom 
there is no guile.” The angel’s wing drooped 
sadly as he beheld him slowly walk up the broad 
aisle, for even there he beheld unholy thoughts 
Indeed, this people “ draw nigh unto Him with 
their lips, but their hearts are far from Him; in 
vain do they worship Him, teaching for doctrines 
the commandments of men.” 
Again the angel’s eye grew bright as one 
chanted words of Holy Writ in such a low. melo¬ 
dious tone, with eyes turned heavenward, as 
almost to deceive the ear of an angel. He 
thought as he flew swiftly toward her, “ with 
thee, holy one, will I rest,” But again he stop¬ 
ped, for he beheld the heart blackened with sin, 
and her voice was no longer sweet, for he loved 
only the pure and beautiful in spirit. 
Now all heads were bowed in prayer; but the 
the angel saw they worshiped in form only, for 
their hearts were for away, mingling with the 
toils and cares of life. He mournfully turned, 
and sighed as he said, “is there not one beautiful 
in spirit in this whole assembly. — one, with 
whom I may rest?” Slowly he spread his white 
wings to leave, when, in a remote corner, far 
back, he espied a lowly one, clad in the lonely 
widow’s garb, lie hastened to her, and in a 
voice so sweet and low thny no mortal ear could 
catch the sound—though it was heard in heaven 
—exclaimed, “behold, I have at last found the 
beautiful one, to comfort, whom I left my bright 
abode above.” Lowly bending, tho bright one 
whispered, “ though counted poor upon earth, 
thou hast treasure in heaven which fadeth not 
away,” 
Together they left the sanctuary. Now, what 
cared she though she was looked upon with con¬ 
tempt. though rudely jostled and pushed aside, 
though health and beauty passed her with a 
frown? Was not an angel with her? Was she 
not loved by better and brighter ones than they? 
Was there not laid up for her a pure, white robe, 
and a golden crown? Oh, thou favored one! 
dost thou uot now know how much better ’tis to 
lay up for thyself treasure in heaven! Thou hast 
passed through many a fiery trial, but hast come 
forth at last as refined gold. Each tear is marked 
by Him without whose notice even a sparrow 
shall not fall, and these shall each form a gem 
in the crown which cannot be taken from tbee. 
Well art thnu repaid, even now, for all thy past 
sufferings, and still more shalt thou be, when 
that bright and loving spirit shall guide thy 
weary feet homeward, where thou shalt rest for 
ever in mansions of joy. 
Think, ye proud sons of earth, ere ye turn 
coldly and unbendingly from the suffering poor, 
there may be an angel al their side, marking 
each heartfelt pain, each foiling tear, also each 
harsh word uttered by your lip, and these shall 
rise in that great day of final account to thy con¬ 
demnation. . “ Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of 
the least of these, ye did it not to me.” 
New York, 1863. Lora 
m 
THE TWO CUPS. 
Mother stoops lier hoy to lift, 
Laughing as slip lakes him up; 
What is Johnny's birth day gift? 
Only this, a bright tin tup. 
Years have passed; that early toy 
Now is battered, bruised and dim; 
But the red blood of the boy 
Once was white milk cm its brim. 
Silver goblet, upside down, 
O’er a pale free like a girl’s, 
What you held was golden-brown, 
Just the color of his curls. 
Moulded to a polished plate, 
What is this your record saith ? 
Only name, and age, and date— 
For the golden draught was death. 
AFTER THE STORM. 
All night, in the pauses of sleep I heard 
The moan of the snow-wind and the sea, 
Like the wail of Thy sorrowing children, O God I 
Who cry unto Thee. 
But in beauty and silence the morning broke, 
O'ertlowing creation the glad light streamed; 
And earth stood shining and white us the souls 
Of the blessed redeemed. 
O glorious marvel in darkness wrought I 
With smiles of promise the blue sky bent, 
As if to whisper to all who mourn— 
Love’s hidden intent. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE LIFE BEYOND. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
BY LEAD rKNCJL, ESQ. 
An old lady, nearly eighty years of age. said 
to me the other day, “ I tell you. Mr. Pencil, it 
a great thing to live — a great thing to live. 
Some people think it a great and solemn thing 
to die: and so it is.—lint it is a greater thing to 
ive as we should,—a much greater thing, Mr. 
Pencil.” 
The manner, and tone, and character of this 
testimony, coming from an old lady, made a | 
most profound impression upon me;-and reflec¬ 
tion has deepened that impression. It is a great 
thing to live,—to walk the earth in health and 
strength, to mingle with our fellows, to associate 
with cultivated minds and commune with good 
hearts, to look upon life in all its varied and 
manifold forms, and learn of the design, and use, 
and beauty of all that lives. Stop right here, and 
think of being blotted out of existence forever- 
now! Think of what we leave—of the privi¬ 
leges and pleasures which gather about our 
paths in life daily. Are we to give them up 
when we die? Are we willing to live without 
hope of a future? Is it a desirable fate to be an¬ 
nihilated?—to have no future beyond this life? 
If we knew that our lives ended with the life on 
earth, would wo not think it a great thing to live? 
And if our life here is but a l'oretusle of a better 
life—a preparation for it—is not life a serious 
matter, involving serious duties, and worthy of 
more careful thought than we are in the habit of 
giving it? 
The good old woman, on the verge of the 
grave, with no fear of death, with a firm hope of 
a happy future, looks back upon the days of her 
life, reviews her own history and the history and 
privileges of her contemporaries, soils out the 
evil from the good, sifts pleasure from pain, joy 
from sorrow, remembers the events of each sea¬ 
son, the enjoyments and happiness which each 
successive season brought her; reviews ber rela¬ 
tions to those who have lived in her life, and the 
manner in which their lives Lave affected hers; 
sees again the ligbis and shadows, ever changing, 
yet always effective and pleasure-giving to those 
who appreciate the privileges of life, and she 
testifies, “It is a great thing to live— a great 
thing to live.” 
If the Rural reader will think a half hour 
upon this testimony of Age, and study his own 
every-day life, he will, if bis conscience and 
intellect is enlightened, walk a new earth and 
become a new man. Try it. 
Be Punctual.— The listless, irregular, and 
unpunctual man. though often good-natured, and 
pleasing, and kind, and inoffensive, is, neverthe¬ 
less. the mere plaything of society, a mere means 
of amusement often wanted, but little valued; 
bo is generally left behind in the race of human 
life, daily laboring under disadvantages which 
result from his habits: and the rest of mankind, 
if they do not condemn or despite him, yet make 
Mm the object of their pity. 
W hat Literature Is.—Poetry is said to be 
the flower of literature; prose is the corn, pota¬ 
toes and meat; satire is the aquafortis; wit the 
spice and pepper; love letters are the honey and 
sugar; letters containing remittances are the 
apple dumplings. 
“If a man die shalthe live again!” 
In all ages, and among all classes, Death has 
almost universally been regarded as the King of 
Terrors—a grim monster which we must all inev¬ 
itably m<*Gt, and ultimately yielding up our little 
all of earthly good, follow the skeleton form to 
gloomy shades from whose fearful recesses issue 
no cheering ray of light. That we are all subject 
to the same law of mortality, we cannot for a 
moment doubt. There is no favored clime over 
which the shadows of the tomb have not fallen; 
where the untiring Reaper swings not his gleam¬ 
ing blade, sweeping down with ruthless hand the 
golden grain of life which love hath so fondly 
guarded. From grassy (lower-gemmed mounds 
on sunny hill sides,—from fields all drenched 
with human gore,—from coral beds beneath old 
ocean’s briny waves,—myriad voices rise, echoing 
the stern decree that sounded firston the cool even¬ 
ing air of Paradise, and sweeping with awful force 
through t lie flowery vales, and shady groves, ceases 
not to vibrate on every breeze that fans tho brow of 
mortal man:—•• Dust thou art. aud unto dust shalt 
thou return.” 
In the face of this unquestionable fact, it may 
well become us to ask that momentous question: 
If a man die shall he live again!” Does 
this poor earth-life contain the whole of good or 
ill it is ours to possess? Are the glorious visions 
of life unending which rise like mighty surges in 
the human heart to be lost in the chilly waves of 
Death, that dash against the shores of time? Are 
we to creep out on this earth our little span of 
life, then sink a clod among the meaner dust? Is 
there not a life whoso joys are to the joys of this 
as the glowing light of a mid-summer sun to the 
gloom of a starless night? 
-“Yes, Olyes, 
There i» a life beyond, where the c hained soul 
May grow, and think, anil busk in Gob’S own light, 
Drawing with love and frith unenr the throne! 
There is a life of such celestial bliss 
That all the joys of this arc hut the throes 
Of the soul’s birth hour—compared with those 
Which the soul's Father hath reserved for us.” 
There is. undoubtedly, a more intimate con¬ 
nection existing between our present and future 
life than many believe. Ours is a continuous 
life, and Death only a shadowy passage in the 
soul’s existence, leading to a higher and holier 
state, and the sweet fruition of bliss more perfect 
and abiding than it is possible for tis to conceive 
of with our present organization. Death, then, 
should be regarded, not as tho “ King of Terrors,” 
but an angel commissioned by the “soul’s Father” 
to convey us over the “darkly rolling river” we 
all must cross before the doors of the “mansions 
prepared for us” will be thrown open, and the 
harps of gold, and glittering crowns of life, be¬ 
stowed upon us which the children of the heaven¬ 
ly King each receive. 
Though our earth-life hath so little real good, 
while the heavenly promises so abundantly, yet 
there is au undefined dread,—a natural shrinking 
from the tomb, and the tearful breaking of the ties 
that bind us so firmly to earth. There exists in 
every breast an innate love of life, and, with un¬ 
spiritualized vision, it is impossible to look even 
calmly on the culmination of the etfect of dis¬ 
obedience. 
The lamp of nature emits too feeble a ray to 
penetrat- the hidden mysteries of the transition 
from time to eternity, hence we shrink back and 
fear to enter where darkness is so profound, but 
illuminated by the realizing light of faith, the 
shadows melt away like snow beneath a sum¬ 
mer sky, and with songlbl lips, and trilling step 
we enter the way our Savior trod with mangled 
feet and crimson-flow ing side, knowing that each 
purple drop that fell gleamed a star whose mel¬ 
low light will ever cheer earth-weary ones 
through the night of Death, till the glorious morn 
of eternity break in wondrous beauty on the rav¬ 
ished vision. F. M. Turner. 
Oxford, N. Y., 1863. 
Parting and forgetting, what faithful heart 
can do these? Our great thoughts, our great 
affections, the truths of our life, never leave us. 
Surely they cannot separate from our con¬ 
sciousness, shall follow it whithersoever it 
shall go. and are of their nature divine and 
immortal. 
I 
. --v OC - 
