When we have slept that dreamless sleep, Which dearest hearts must sever; O may we wake no more to weep, But live in _bliss_ for ever. _John Linden._ True _bliss_, the flower of Paradise, Lives not in this ungenial clime; It blossoms in celestial skies, Beyond the ravages of time; The joy to christian pilgrims given, Is but the rich perfume of heaven. _W. J. Brock._ True _bliss_, the flower of Paradise, Why seek it here below? It groweth only ’neath those skies With love divine that glow. Warmed by the sun of righteousness, And watered by the dews Of mercy, and redeeming grace, How lively are its hues! In heaven, an amaranthine flower, On earth, it blossoms but an hour. _Egone._ BLINDNESS. The Lord openeth the eyes of the _blind_.--Psalm cxlvi. 8. Then the eyes of the _blind_ shall be opened.--Isaiah, xxxv. 5. He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the _blind_.--Luke, iv. 18. Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the _blindness_ of their heart.--Ephesians, iv. 18. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide; “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need Either man’s works, or his own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly, thousands at his bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve, who only stand and wait.” _Milton._ There is a poor _Blind_ Man, who every day, In summer sunshine, or in winter’s rain, Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane, Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way, To kneel before his Maker, and to hear The chanted service pealing full and clear. Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels Through the long year? Oh! the wide world is cold, As dark to him; here, he no longer feels His sad bereavement--Faith and Hope uphold His heart--he feels not he is poor and _blind_, Amid the unpitying tumult of mankind: As thro’ the aisles the choral anthems roll, His soul is in the choirs above the skies, And songs, far off, of angel companies.