And the clouds that crown the mountain
With purple and gold delight,
Turn to cold gray mist, and vapor,

Ere we reach the height.

Stately and fair is the versel

That comes not near the beach,
Stately and grand the mountain
Whose height we may never reach.

Oh, distance, thou dear enchanter,
Still hold in thy magic veil
The glory of far-off mountains,
The gleam of the far-off sail.

Hide in thy robe of splendor,
Oh! mountains cold and gray;
Oh! sails, in thy snowy whiteness,
Come not into port, I pray.

PATIENCE.

Let me not dream in vain despair

That progress stays her steps for me;

The puny leverage of a hair

A planet's impulse well may spare,
A drop of dew the tided sea.

The loss, if loss there be, is mine;

And yet not mine, if understood; And one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life's rue, and one its wine,

And God shall make the balance good.

Oh, power to do! oh, baffled will!

Oh, prayer and action, ye are one, Who may not serve, may yet fulfil The hardest task of standing still;

And good but wished, with God is done.

J. G. Whittier..

IF WE KNEW.

If we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road;

If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load;
Would we waste to-day in wishing
For a time that ne'er can be?
Would we wait in such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?

If we knew the baby-fingers

Pressed against the window pane, Would be cold and stiff to-morrowNever trouble us again;

Would the bright eyes of our darling

Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the print of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now?

Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone.

Strange that summer skies and sunshine
Never seem one-half so fair

As when winter's snowy pinions

Shake their white down in the air.

Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty

As adorns the mouth to-day ;.
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.
Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all along our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day;
With a patient hand removing
All the briers from the way.

THE PETRITIED FERN.

In a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender,
Veining delicate, and fibres tender,

Waving when the wind crept down so low;
Rushes tall, and moss and grass grew round it,
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,
Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it,
But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young, and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,
Stately forests waved their giant branches,
Mountains hushed their snowy avalanches,
Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;
Nature revelled in grand mysteries,

But the little fern was not of these,

Did not number with the hills and trees,

Only grew and waved its sweet wild way—
No one came to note it day by day.

Earth one time put on frolic mood,

Heaved the rocks, and changed the mighty motion
Of the deep strong currents of the ocean;
Moved the plain, shook the haughty wood,
Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay;
Covered it and hid it safe away;

Oh! the long, long centuries since that day!
Oh, the agony! Oh, life's bitter cost,
Since that useless little fern was lost.

Useless! lost! There came a thoughtful man,
Searching out nature's secrets far and deep;
From a fissure in a rocky steep

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design,
Veinings and leafage, fibres clear and fine;
And the fern's life lay traced in every line!
Just so, I think, God hides some souls away,.
Sweetly to surprise us the last day.

THERE'S NO SUCH WORD AS FAIL.

Preface to Longfellow's Translation of Dante's Inferno.

Heed not this cold world's taunting jeer,

But in thy might arise;

It often proves misfortunes here

Are blessings in disguise.

I've seen the oak beneath the storm
Bow down upon the shore;
I've seen it raise its stately form
And flourish as before.

If storms assail our earthly bark,
We'll brace the shattered sail,

Though friends be few, and prospects dark-
There's no such word as fail.

I've seen the ship lie tempest tost

Upon the troubled main ;

That vessel which all thought was lost

Is sailing free again.

When driven on before the blast,

And enemies assail,

We'll nail our motto to the mast-
There's no such word as fail.

Full many a pilgrim by the way
A look hath homeward cast;
Sorrowing, again hath turned away,
But reached the bourne at last.