He who made the lovely flowers Which adorn both shrub and tree, Climbing vine, and shady bowers, In this beauty speaks to me: 'Tis the curtain of His tent, Hiding much, yet much reveals, Type of the Elysian fields; Glory streams thro' woof and rent. WHAT LASTS? The words we speak on the empty air, Are never lost, but recorded there; The process we may not comprehend, Nor how the words with the air may blend, But science shows what results may be; Accept the fact, is enough for me. The waves of sound may have died away As ripples faint on a sheltered bay; But though now faint will be heard again, By God, ourselves, and the sons of men. As sound e'en now may be multiplied; The faintest moan like the roaring tide; The housefly's tread with its tiny feet Like tramp of horse on the stone-paved street. So, though now faint, will those voices be, When Christ shall come in His majesty; Our quicken'd sense will the echo hear, Like blast of horn to the timid deer. In pleasant tones will the echoes be, Of words of love and of happy glee, Which we address to the friends we love, Or offer up to our Lord above. But, unlike those, all the echoes heard, Of angry tones, and each sword-like word; As we here mete to our fellow men, The Judge shall mete in full measure then. The thoughts we think may be lasting, too, Though not inscribed on the azure blue; On the tissued walls of the soul's great dome, May be found those thoughts ne'er more to roam. And like our thoughts, may we not become The thought we think, be ourselves the sum? May thoughts of God on my heart be graved, And I be known as a _sinner saved_. IS THERE A BRIGHTER WORLD? Beneath the surface of a shallow lake, Where grasses rank and mammoth rushes grow, And playful fish their bright fins nimbly shake, Or madly chase each other to and fro, The larva of the dragon-fly submerged, In family large, had taken their abode, And tho' the waves around them daily surged, Upon the bending grass they safely rode. Content were they with life as there enjoyed; To brighter world they never had aspired, Had they not felt unfilled an aching void, And heard a whisper of a life attired In sapphire robes, 'midst gleams of golden light, Above their present world, so dank and chill, Where all day long they wing their happy flight From roses sweet to lovely daffodil. But some essayed to doubt if it were so. Who ever had returned to make it known? One volunteered that he would upward go, To bring report; but he was not full grown, And fainted when he reached the surface air, And falling, round a reed his form he curled, Then cried, "Delusion! I have been up there. And could not find a trace of brighter world."