d more fitting thy powers to employ
In the service of him, who his own life has given
To procure thee a crown and a mansion in Heaven.
As a dream that is gone at the breaking of day,
And a tale that's soon told, so our years pass away.
"Then count that day lost, whose low setting sun
Can see from thy hand no worthy act done."
Midst the roses of life many thorns thou wilt find,
"But the cloud that is darkest, with silver is lined."
As the children of Israel were led on their way
By the bright cloud at night, and the dark cloud by day,
So the Christian is led through the straight narrow road
That brings him direct to his home and his God;
And when the last stage of life's journey is o'er,
And Jordan's dark waves can affright him no more,
When safely arrived in his own promised land,
He's permitted with Saints and with Angels to stand,
Then weighed in the balance how light will appear
All the sorrows of life, with his blissful state there.
Oh! let us by faith take a view of him now,
See the crown of bright jewels encircling his brow;
His old tattered robe swept away by the flood,
Is replaced by a new one, the gift of his Lord;
The hand of his Saviour that garment hath wrought,
It is pure stainless white, free from wrinkle and spot.
The streets that he walks in are paved with gold,
And yet it's transparent as glass we are told;
The pure river of water of life is in view,
And for healing the nations, the tree of life too.
There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night
Is excluded forever--the Lord God is their light.
But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,
No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there.
And these joys may be ours--oh! how blissful the thought,
Ours without money, without price may be bought.
For us they've been purchased by the Son of God,
At an infinite price--_his own precious blood_.
They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose,
'Tis _life_ to accept them,--'tis _death_ to refuse.

Weston, May 15, 1862.

AN ACROSTIC.

Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by.
Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each,
How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.
E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;