With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God-

This is the place where human harvests grow.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THEY are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days-
My days which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays.

These are your walks, and ye have showed them me, To kindle my cold love.

54

IN AFFLICTION LOOK TO JESUS.

Dear, beauteous Death-the jewel of the just-
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted
themes,

And into glory peep.

IN AFFLICTION LOOK TO JESUS.

OCTAVIUS WINSLOW.

IN each season of affliction, to whom can we more appropriately look than to Jesus? He was preëminently the man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. If you would tell your grief to one who knew grief as none ever knew it; if you would weep upon the bosom of one who wept as none ever wept; if you would disclose your sorrow to one who sorrowed as

none ever sorrowed; if you would bare your wound to one who was wounded as none ever was wounded, - then, in your affliction, turn from all creature sympathy and succor, and look to Jesus: to a kinder nature, to a tenderer bosom, to a deeper love, to a more powerful arm, to a more sympathizing friend, you could not take your trial, your affliction, and your sorrow. He is prepared to imbosom himself in your deepest grief, and to make your circumstances all his own. So completely and personally is he one with you, that nothing can affect you that does not instantly touch him. God's family is a sorrowing family. "I have chosen thee," he says, "in the furnace of affliction." "I will leave in the midst of thee a poor and an afflicted people." The history of the church finds its fittest emblem in the burning, yet unconsumed, bush which Moses saw. Man is "born to sorrow; but the believer is "appointed thereunto." It would seem to be a condition inseparable from his high calling. If he is a "chosen vessel," it is in the "furnace of affliction." If he is an adopted child, "chastening is the mark. If he is journeying to the heavenly kingdom, his path lies through "much tribulation." But if his sufferings abound, much more so do his consolations. To be comforted by God may well reconcile us to any sorrow with which it may please our heavenly Father to invest us. Go and breathe your sorrows into God's heart, and he will comfort you. Blessed sorrow if, in the time of your bereavement, your grief, and your solitude, you are led to Jesus, making him your Savior, your Friend, your Counsellor, and your Shield. Blessed

"

loss, if it be compensated by a knowledge of God, if you find in him a Father now, to whom you will transfer your ardent affections, upon whom you will repose your bleeding heart, and in whom you will

trust.

BROKEN TIES.

HOME JOURNAL.

"Tis something very sad

To place our hand in Memory's, and retrace
With her the paths that trailing years have worn,
And, in green spots which she shall point us out,
Pause to recount who sat beside us there,
And listen while she tells us of the Hours
That trooped before us, hand in hand with Joy,
When we, too, joined the mirthful revellers,
And thought-if thought, indeed, would sometimes

come

Of life as all one sunbright holiday.

How vividly they seem to stand again—

Those dear companions of my morning time-
In the familiar places! How I hear

Their silvery laughter, like the chime of bells,
Ringing the harmonies of happy hearts!
The youth, with flushing cheek, and kindling eye,
And form and mien of manliest dignity;
The graceful girl, with brow most eloquent
Of love and beauty; pensive womanhood,

And buoyant, bright-haired children. Eagerly
I turn to clasp them, but they melt away,
And, phantom-like, all vanish; and I find
"Twas but a mirage memory had evoked,
To taunt my longing vision. Deeper, then,
And with an aching sense too real, comes
Back to my heart that saddest consciousness,
That only thus can I behold again

The sweet-remembered faces that are gone.

Mysteriously a dread and unseen hand
Cuts at a blow the thousand golden cords
Whose twisting Love had labored at for years.
And they who seemed a portion of ourselves-
Who sat with us beside the household hearth,
And at the cheerful board,-who had no joy
Or sorrow that we knew not of, are snatched
Forever from our sight; and we are left,
Amid our blinding tears, to gather up
The shattered threads that were so powerless
To fasten down to earth the subtile soul.
They have no room for grief, regret, or pain;
Seraph capacity of thought is theirs,
And God and glory overwhelm it all.
The rupture and the agony are ours,
Who, in our human weakness, oft forget,
Or fail to follow, with an eye of faith,
The joyous spirit in its skyward flight;
But weep with an absorbing grief around
The empty cage of clay. Yet even then
Gleams forth, with iris beauty, through the storm,
This blessed hope that all these broken ties