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, So grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother, The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock, Yet loud shrieks that mother, poor heart broken mother, The babe, in return, for its fond mother cries, While the sound of their wailings together arise; 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; The child was borne off to a far distant clime, That poor mourning mother, of reason bereft, Soon ended her sorrows, and sunk cold in death; Oh! list, ye kind mothers, to the cries of the slave! From sorrow and woe. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. BY HORACE SMITH. Day stars! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 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, There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Your voiceless lips, oh flowers, are living preachers; Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor, "Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly Artist! Of love to all! Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure, Ephemeral sages! what instructers hoary, For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Yet fount of hope! Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! And second birth. Were I, oh God! in churchless lands remaining, |