His path upward, and prevailed,

Shall find the toppling crags of duty, scaled,
Are close upon the shining table-lands

To which our God himself is moon and sun.

CCXXI. THE ISLE OF Long Ago.

- Tennyson.

Он, a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical isle up the river of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that isle is the Long Ago;
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow-
There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!-
There are trinkets and tresses of hair:

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night-

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

-B. F. Taylor.

CCXXII. THE LOST ARTS.

THE art of making daily bread,
With work of hands and work of head,
Instead of basely plotting for it,
Seems lost to many a mind and heart,
Whose fathers loved industrious art

As much as their fast sons abhor it.

The art of living frugal lives,
With honest husbands, faithful wives,
Without a thought of mean divorces,
Is half forgotten there and here,
By those who never love or fear

The law which fate at last enforces.

The art of holding public trust,
Without vile crawling in the dust

To reach the high or humble station,

Is classed among forgotten arts,

So many sacrifice their hearts,

On shrine of base humiliation.

The noble art of seeking out
The man we scarce can do without,

To stop the public treasures leaking,
The manly art ignoring self,
Undazed by golden gleams of pelf,
Is lost, alas! in office-seeking.
The art of earning more, not less,
Than's paid for vain parade and dress,
And saving for a day that's rainy,
And wintry age, that comes too soon,
And sickness, that may smite at noon,
Is lost in fashion's maze by many.

The art of paying as you go,
And dreading any debt to owe,
Preferring corduroy and cotton
To costly silks obtained on trust,
And satins trailing in the dust,

Is almost lost and quite forgotten.

CCXXIII.—THE INSPIRATION OF THE BIBLE.

SUCH is the intrinsic excellence of Christianity that it is adapted to the wants of all, and it provides for all, not only by its precepts and by its doctrines, but also by its

evidence.

The poor man may know nothing of history, or science, or philosophy; he may have read scarcely any book but the Bible; he may be totally unable to vanquish the skeptic in the arena of public debate; but he is nevertheless surrounded by a panoply which the shafts of infidelity can never pierce.

You may go to the home of the poor cottager, whose heart is deeply imbued with the spirit of vital Christianity; you may see him gather his little family around him; he expounds to them the wholesome doctrines and principles of the Bible; and, if they want to know the evidence upon which he rests his faith, of the divine origin of his religion, he can tell them, upon reading the book which teaches Christianity, he finds not only a perfectly true description of his own natural character, but in the provisions of this religion a perfect adaptation to all his needs.

It is a religion by which to live-a religion by which to die; a religion which cheers in darkness, relieves in perplexity, supports in adversity, keeps steadfast in prosperity, and guides the inquirer to that blessed land where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

We entreat you, therefore, to give the Bible a welcome—

a cordial reception; obey its precepts, trust its promises, and rely implicitly upon that Divine Redeemer, whose religion brings glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace and good will to men.

Thus will you fulfill the noble end of your existence, and the great God of the universe will be your father and your friend; and, when the last mighty convulsion shall shake the earth, and the sea, and the sky; and the fragments of a thousand barks, richly freighted with intellect and learning, are scattered on the shores of error and delusion, your vessel shall in safety outride the storm, and enter in triumph the haven of eternal rest.

-Edw. Winthrop.

CCXXIV. PRAYER AND POTATOES.

AN old lady sat in her old arm-chair,
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,
And pale, hunger-worn features;

For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.

But, now they were gone; of bad or good,
Not one was left for the old lady's food

Of those potatoes;

And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?
Where shall I send and to whom shall I go

For more potatoes?"

And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,

Whose cellar was full of potatoes;

And she said, "I will send for the deacon to come;

He'll not mind much to give me some

Of such a store of potatoes."

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,

Thinking to do the old lady some good,

But never once of potatoes;

He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered, Potatoes."

But the deacon's religion did n't lie that way;
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes;

So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,

But she only thought of potatoes.

He prayed for patience and wisdom and grace;
But, when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"
She audibly sighed, "give potatoes;"

And, at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard, in its stead,
That same request for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
'Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About "those carnal potatoes."

So, ending his prayers, he started for home,

But, as the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan, "Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"

And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room,
"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"

He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.

Again he went to the widow's lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;
But there she sat in that old arm-chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air,
And, entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.

The widow's heart leaped up for joy,
Her face was haggard and wan no more,