As through the artist’s intervening glass Our eye observes the distant planets pass, A little we discover, but allow That more remains unseen than art can show: So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,) High as we may we lift our reason up, By Faith directed, and confirmed by Hope: Yet we are able only to survey Dawnings of beams, and promises of day. _Heaven’s_ fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight; Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light: But soon the ’mediate clouds shall be dispelled; The sun shall then be face to face beheld, In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. _Prior._ Friends, even in _Heaven_, one happiness would miss, Should they not know each other when in bliss. _Bishop Ken._ All hail! all hail! resplendent vault, so wondrously display’d, Abyss, where the Eternal’s hand the scattered scene array’d; He gave them light; His mighty hand suspended them alone; And ever from the chilling north, to India’s sultry zone, In every region of the west, and isle of southern sea, All raise, Oh! glorious firmament, their suppliant glance to thee! Vast sea of air, with countless gems, I love on thee to gaze! Oh empyreal space! Oh stars! I love your softened rays; Mysterious torches; ye have made the universe so bright! Yet from this temple far above, ye bring your borrowed light! What rapture fills thy spirit, borne on contemplation’s wing, What charms, oh, beauteous canopy! thy varied aspects bring. _From the French of Anna H. P. Le Chatelain._ This world is all a fleeting show, For man’s illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, There’s nothing true but _heaven_. And false the light on glory’s plume, As fading hues of even, And love, and hope, and beauty’s bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb: There’s nothing bright but _heaven_. _Moore._ To live in darkness--in despair to die-- Is this indeed the boon to mortals given? Is there no port--no rock of refuge nigh? There is--to those who fix their anchor-hope in _heaven_. Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside; Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above-- Low at the cross bow down--in that confide, Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love. _C. C. Colton._