and sins, and followed in the path which she pointed out,although he doubtless found it hedged in with difficulties, and by no means free, at times, from the sharpest pains, he felt daily and hourly that his soul was becoming transfigured from a grovelling earth-worm to an angel of light.

But the thought which is now present to me most distinctly, is the untold joy of spiritual inception, the distinct realization of spiritual progress,-the palpable vanishing of low and ignoble thoughts, and the measurable increase of light and love.

I wish I could define this state of mind so truly as to divert my brothers and sisters from the cheap pursuits of a selfish life to the paths of true wisdom. How a man, conscious of an immortal soul which will outlive, and may outshine the stars, can continue on, from day to day, in a life of senseless occupations, or a mere struggle for earthly gauds, utterly heedless of the deep wants of his spiritual nature, and seeking for no joy not consistent with the lowest aims,-is indeed the one mystery of life. Has "reason fled to brutish beasts?" Is it left for the brute creation only, to perfect their being and follow out their highest instincts; and is it destined that man should stifle the sad cry of his higher nature for food, and heed only the coarse voice of his passions? Such, certainly, is the appearance of things. Moral and intellectual life appears to have lost its attraction—and men give the preference to the most trivial and insipid enjoyments. Oh that one ray of truth might break through into the dark cavern of their minds and gild its dank atmosphere, for a moment at least, with the light of heaven! Poor souls, they may have been blinded so long as to be incompetent to bear the light-even a single ray. It might sear their contracted eyeballs even beyond their present darkness. And yet I have hope. I cannot, I will not believe that the human soul is to be always defrauded of her rights. I will cherish in my mind a prophesy, which shall stay there till it has become a history, that the world is about waking from her dreadful lethargy, and feeling the need of a new life.

This cannot be, however, till men appreciate the intrinsic

excellence of a truthful life-and pursue it for its own sake. If they are aroused from their present torpor by simple fear-and change their course that they may escape some real or imaginary hell, or if no glimmer of the inborn loveliness of a higher state has reached their souls,-they are yet far, very far, from the Kingdom of Heaven. They must woo virtue as a bride. They must become moral enthusiasts. They must learn to feel that joy at the sight of a new truth in morals, which the enthusiastic florist feels at the sight of a new flower, or rather, a joy as much greater than his as a perennial virtue is greater than a perishable flower. Once in this state of mind, and you are safe; for I cannot think that any sane mind which has ever been deeply enamoured of Truth can cease to be her suitor. Her fascinations never lose their bewitching power, Her beauty never fades. Her resources never fail. Her love never falters. She comes to you every evening and fresh every morning." When least you expect it, in the hour of your greatest despondency, in the season of your bitterest affliction, the heavens suddenly open, and she descends upon you like a dove, and sends peace into your wavering spirit.

66 new

In moments of dream-ful uncertainty, a new thought suddenly enters your mind-whence and how you cannot divine-and instantly doubts which have puzzled your intellect for years are solved, and clouds which have shaded your path from your infancy up, flap their black wings and flee. Such thoughts are the frequent visitants of every lover of Truth, and are the messengers which she sends to guide him through her paths, And what welcome messengers they are! How often have they chased away some lurking fear or lingering suspicion, and as they departed shaken from their wings an incense which has been balm to the soul for years!

THE BEREAVED SLAVE MOTHER.

BY JESSE HUTCHINSON, JR.

Oh! deep was the anguish of the slave mother's heart,
When call'd from her darling forever to part;

So grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock,
While the child of her bosom is sold on the block;

Yet loud shrieks that mother, poor heart broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The babe, in return, for its fond mother cries,

While the sound of their wailings together arise;
They shriek for each other, the child and the mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The harsh auctioneer, to sympathy cold,

Tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold; While the infant and mother, loud shriek for each other, In sorrow and woe.

At last came the parting of mother and child,

Her brain reel'd with madness, that mother was wild;
Then the lash could not smother the shrieks of that mother,
Of sorrow and woe.

The child was borne off to a far distant clime,
While the mother was left in anguish to pine,
But reason departed, and she sunk broken hearted,
In sorrow and woe.

That poor mourning mother, of reason bereft,

Soon ended her sorrows, and sunk cold in death;
Thus died that slave mother, poor heart-broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.

Oh! list, ye kind mothers, to the cries of the slave!
The parents and children implore you to save;
Go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and brothers,

From sorrow and woe.

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS.

BY HORACE SMITH.

Day stars! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lovely altar sprinkle
As a libation!

Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high!

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of nature's temple tesselate,
What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create !

'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer!

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal man,

But to that fane most catholic and solemn

Which God hath planned!

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply,
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ-thunder,
Its dome-the sky!

There, as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod,
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
The ways of God,—

Your voiceless lips, oh flowers, are living preachers;
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book,
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers
From loneliest nook!

Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor,
"Weep without sin and blush without a crime,"
Oh! may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender
Your love sublime!

"Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory,
Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; "
How vain your grandeur! oh, how transitory
Are human flowers!

In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly Artist!
With which thou paintest Nature's wide spread hall,
What a delightful lesson thou impartest

Of love to all!

Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure,
Blooming o'er fields and wave by day and night,
From every source your sanction bids me treasure
Harmless delight!

Ephemeral sages! what instructers hoary,

For such a world of thought could furnish scope?
Each fading calyx a memento mori,

Yet fount of hope!

Posthumous glories! angel-like collection!
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth,
Ye are to me a type of resurrection

And second birth.

Were I, oh God! in churchless lands remaining,
Far from all teachers and from all divines,
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining,
Priests, sermons, shrines!