ay,--causing to
stumble, fall, or faint, those mortals who are striving
to enter the path,--divine Love will remove; and up- [25]
lift the fallen and strengthen the weak. Therefore, give
up thy earth-weights; and observe the apostle's admoni-
tion, "Forgetting those things which are behind, and
reaching forth unto those which are before." Then,
loving God supremely and thy neighbor as thyself, thou [30]
wilt safely bear thy cross up to the throne of everlasting
glory.

[Page 329.]

Voices Of Spring

Mine is an obstinate _penchant_ for nature in all her [2]
moods and forms, a satisfaction with whatever is hers.
And what shall this be named, a weakness, or a--
virtue? [5]

In spring, nature like a thrifty housewife sets the earth
in order; and between taking up the white carpets and
putting down the green ones, her various apartments are
dismally dirty.

Spring is my sweetheart, whose voices are sad or glad, [10]
even as the heart may be; restoring in memory the sweet
rhythm of unforgotten harmonies, or touching tenderly
its tearful tones.

Spring passes over mountain and meadow, waking up
the world; weaving the wavy grass, nursing the timid [15]
spray, stirring the soft breeze; rippling all nature in
ceaseless flow, with "breath all odor and cheek all bloom."
Whatever else droops, spring is gay: her little feet trip
lightly on, turning up the daisies, paddling the water-
cresses, rocking the oriole's cradle; challenging the sed- [20]
entary shadows to activity, and the streams to race for the
sea. Her dainty fingers put the fur cap on pussy-willow,
paint in pink the petals of arbutus, and sweep in soft
strains her Orphean lyre. "The voice of the turtle is
heard in our land." The snow-bird that tarried through [25]
the storm, now chirps to the breeze; the cuckoo sounds
her invisible lute, calling the feathered tribe back to their
summer homes. Old robin, though stricken to the heart
with winter's snow, prophesies of fair earth and sunny
skies. The brooklet sings melting murmurs to merry [30]

[Page 330.]

meadows; the leaves clap their hands, and the winds [1]
make melody through dark pine groves.

What is the anthem of human life?

Has love ceased to moan over the new-made grave,
and, looking upward, does it patiently pray for the per- [5]
petual springtide wherein no arrow wounds the dove?
Human hope and faith should join in nature's grand har-
mony, and, if on minor key, make music in the