meadows; the leaves clap their hands, and the winds 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 perpetual springtide wherein no arrow wounds the dove? Human hope and faith should join in nature's grand harmony, and, if on minor key, make music in the heart. And man, more friendly, should call his race as gently to the springtide of Christ's dear love. St. Paul wrote, “Rejoice in the Lord always.” And why not, since man's possibilities are infinite, bliss is eternal, and the consciousness thereof is here and now?
The alders bend over the streams to shake out their tresses in the water-mirrors; let mortals bow before the creator, and, looking through Love's transparency, behold man in God's own image and likeness, arranging in the beauty of holiness each budding thought. It is good to talk with our past hours, and learn what report they bear, and how they might have reported more spiritual growth. With each returning year, higher joys, holier aims, a purer peace and diviner energy, should freshen the fragrance of being. Nature's first and last lessons teach man to be kind, and even pride should sanction what our natures need. Popularity, — what is it? A mere mendicant that boasts and begs, and God denies charity.
When gentle violet lifts its blue eye to heaven, and crown imperial unveils its regal splendor to the sun; when the modest grass, inhabiting the whole earth, stoops meekly before the blast; when the patient corn waits on the elements to put forth its slender blade, construct
