Experience teaches some lessons of worth— That wealth is not always of lordliest birth, That duty makes labor, tho’ humble, sublime— That crucial trial gives strength to the soul:— There’s no royal road to Life’s coveted goal, Earth’s throngs must all pass the same doorway of Time. * * * * * If Heaven’s light beam on your tears, Hope’s bright bow will span the cloud, While God’s own promise, calming fears, Will lift the soul by sorrow bowed. * * * * * Mystery deep, thy doors unbar, And let us look within!— Thought goes ranging far—afar, On webs our fancies spin. * * * * * The life I live is not my own— ’Tis subterfuge and dross, The yearning soul makes hidden moan, With secret sense of loss. * * * * * O, dear Savior, I am weary— Let me rest my soul with Thee! Mansions bright, Thou art preparing— Wilt thou, Jesus, welcome me? * * * * * For the bright, warm joys, once cherished, There’s a withered rose and a brown, sere leaf; Ah! dear were the hopes that perished, Yet there’s wealth of life, in the golden sheaf. * * * * * When a gleam of the sun, thro’ a rift in the storm, Throws a light on our path, that was shadowed before, We look to the cloud, for the beautiful form Of the bow, that is promise to us, evermore. * * * * * The rose is girt with thorns about, The berries sweet, with briars— Thus Fate doth ever hedge us from Our heart’s supreme desires. * * * * * Tossing, rolling, restless sea, Picture thou of Life to me—Shadow-clouds now floating o’er, Foam and drift-wood on the shore:— Depths of dark and billowy waves, Wrecking hopes and hollowing graves— Breaking on the beach in moans, Seem thy cavern’s echoed groans. Prosperous winds, and thou wilt bear, On thy heaving bosom fair, Snowy sails, with treasures laden From the distant, sun-kissed Aden,— Costly fabrics—richest stores, For their own, dear, home-lit shores, Where Love’s altars brightly burn, While she waits their glad return. * * * * * In all this beauteous world of ours What gift, of Love, so sweet as flowers! * * * * * O, sweet is the fountain of soothing That ever is found in His Word— Drink deeply when heart-wounds are bleeding And the peace of the spirit is stirred. Words. O, words may be loving and mellow in tone, Sweet as the dew on the flowers of Hermon, Gently imparting a blessing their own, Precious with promise, as Olivet’s sermon.