Such is the Christian’s Future! There are seen Eternal sunshine—vales of softest green, Grottos, savannahs, deep and flowery glades, Clear sparkling streams and rainbow-lit cascades, Thick shadowy woods, where many a voice of song Gladdens the hours, as fast they flit along; No care to mar their brightness, and no gloom To whisper “onward, onward to the tomb”— Bright Youth and Hope, by Grace and Beauty’s side, No look of scorn—no air of worm-like pride, No voice of woe, to pain the spirit ear— No orphan’s cry—no widow’s heart-wrung tear— No secret fear, to chill the hour of bliss, No hollow heart—no false or Judas kiss— No wan Disease, to steal the rose away! And write at Beauty’s door, “Decay, Decay”— Oh! no—the Future, Virtue’s happy clime— The land beyond the grave, untouched by time, Where the worn soul throws off its mortal clay— And, god-like, springs to Heaven’s eternal day— The realm of bliss—where, with a joy half wild, The mother clasps and cherishes her child— The widow claims her long lost son—the maid Her plighted lover, years to her a shade— Where friends embrace, and souls again unite, Fond faces greet, and gladden on the sight— The buried sire once more his idol boy Clasps to his breast with more than human joy— And well remembered voices—looks of love— Kind words that sweeten every lip above; Where, as we downward gaze, and distant far, The world appears a faint and feeble star, Where Life and Bliss their arms together twine, And Nature’s charms are added, Heaven, to thine— Where “moth nor rust,” nor chance nor change may come, Forever wandering and forever home; Joys brightening in our footsteps as we pass, And Hope before us with his magic glass— Each sound and song, each object, every thought, With some new pleasure, some fresh feeling fraught— Where one pure Spirit animates the whole, One thrill excites the universal soul! ’Tis these, and joys like these, the Future brings, When ’midst her depths we soar on Virtue’s wings— When from the Past the light of hope we borrow, And throw its brightness o’er the coming morrow,— When, as we wander through life’s devious way, The realm beyond this mere domain of clay Shall, like some beacon on a rocky strand, Win the strained gaze and nerve the feeble hand— Shall point where danger lies, and where at last Our bark may ride in safety from the blast! Such is the Christian’s dream of time to come, The land of light and love—the happy home— Where the worn spirit, freed from earthly ties, Above the things of dust and time shall rise, And mount on angel pinions to the skies! * * * * * THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. I. O’DONNELL’S PRIZE. “To be plain with you,” said the barber, shaking his head, “I can scarce believe what you say.” _Gil Blas._