statement is
true, however, which I see in one of the most popular Cyclopaedias, that
"the non-clerical mind in all ages is disposed to look favorably upon
the doctrine of the universal restoration to holiness and happiness of
all fallen intelligences, whether human or angelic." Certainly, most
of the poets who have reached the heart of men, since Burns dropped the
tear for poor "auld Nickie-ben" that softened the stony-hearted theology
of Scotland, have had "non-clerical" minds, and I suppose our young
friend is in his humble way an optimist like them. What he says in verse
is very much the same thing as what is said in prose in all companies,
and thought by a great many who are thankful to anybody that will say
it for them,--not a few clerical as wall as "non-clerical" persons among
them.

WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS.

V

What am I but the creature Thou hast made?
What have I save the blessings Thou hast lent?
What hope I but Thy mercy and Thy love?
Who but myself shall cloud my soul with fear?
Whose hand protect me from myself but Thine?

I claim the rights of weakness, I, the babe,
Call on my sire to shield me from the ills
That still beset my path, not trying me
With snares beyond my wisdom or my strength,
He knowing I shall use them to my harm,
And find a tenfold misery in the sense
That in my childlike folly I have sprung
The trap upon myself as vermin use
Drawn by the cunning bait to certain doom.
Who wrought the wondrous charm that leads us on
To sweet perdition, but the self-same power
That set the fearful engine to destroy
His wretched offspring (as the Rabbis tell),
And hid its yawning jaws and treacherous springs
In such a show of innocent sweet flowers
It lured the sinless angels and they fell?

Ah! He who prayed the prayer of all mankind
Summed in those few brief words the mightiest plea
For erring souls before the courts of heaven,
Save us from being tempted,--lest we fall!
If we are only as the potter's clay
Made to be fashioned as the artist wills,
And broken into shards if we offend
The eye of Him who made us, it is well;
Such love as the insensate lump of clay
That spins upon the swift-revolving wheel
Bears to the hand that shapes its growing form,
--Such love, no more, will be our h