(Original.)

A THOUGHT ON REV. XXI. 1.

A. R. C.

"AND there was no more sea. Ay, is it so?
Shall the fair face of that creation new

Boast no grand ocean with its mighty flow-
No bright expanse of waters broad and blue?

How I have loved to watch the heaving brine!
How I have loved to list the billows' roar !
Or wistful gaze upon the melting line,
Where the strain'd vision spies no bounding shore!

To each fair landscape of this glorious earth,
Thou, thou hast lent a majesty, an awe—
To vast and solemn thoughts hast given birth,
While types of loftiest things in thee I saw.

In the redeem'd inheritance of saints,

Where these dim scenes ne'er "come upon the heart,"

'Mid all the glories hallow'd fancy paints,

Shalt thou, grand ocean, bear no more a part?

No! thou'rt a type of restlessness and change-
Mutation swift of sublunary things-

Telling that mortals skim life's changeful range,
Swift as the gull that o'er thy surface wings.

Thou art the type of fierce and angry strife—
Rude agitation and contention wild—

Picture of the tempestuous throes of life—
The storms that wreck mortality's frail child.

Thou art the bar, impassable and wide,

Dividing hearts that with leal thoughts throb high,
That pine once more to nestle side by side,
And rest together, were it but to die.

Fresh though thy billows be, thou art a grave—
A watery deathbed where ten thousands sleep:
I hear a requiem in thy groaning wave,
For those who in thy weed-wrapt caves lie deep.

I am content there shall be no more sea!
For in the home where risen saints shall dwell,
Death, sorrow, change, and parting cannot be,
Nor aught remain of former things to tell:

The love of sinless bosoms ebbs no more-
No storm invades the still, adoring heart-
No sweeping tide dissevers shore from shore,
For they who meet in glory never part.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

PROFESSOR LONGFELLOW.

THERE is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair ?" saith he"Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kiss'd their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

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He bound them in his sheaves.

My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"

The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

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Where He was once a child.

They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care;

And saints upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love :

She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above.

Oh! not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the earth,

And took the flowers away.

THE RHODODENDRON.

"MORAL OF FLOWERS."

GEM of the Alps! 'tis strange to trace

Aught beautiful as thou, Gladdening "the solitary place"

With unexpected glow.

Yet, bright one! cold thy bed must be,
And harsh thy evening lullaby ;—

Would thou wert planted in the bower
Which summer weaves for bird and flower!
And rock'd to slumber by the gale
She breathes in yonder sunny vale!

Oh, tell me not of valley fair,

Where sweeter flowerets bloom;
I too have sun and healthful air
In this my mountain home.
Yet, stranger! doth thy sympathy
Demand some poor return from me;
And what if I, frail lowly thing,
Such lesson to thine heart might bring,
That thou, in after hour, should'st bless
The floweret of the wilderness ?