It is the only road Unto the realms of joy; But he who seeks that blest abode Must all his powers employ. Bright hopes and pure delight Upon his course may beam, And there, amid the sternest heights, The sweetest flowerets gleam. On all her breezes borne, Earth yields no scents like those; But he that dares not gasp the thorn Should never crave the rose. Arm--arm thee for the fight! Cast useless loads away; Watch through the darkest hours of night; Toil through the hottest day. Crush pride into the dust, Or thou must needs be slack; And trample down rebellious lust, Or it will hold thee back. Seek not thy honour here; Waive pleasure and renown; The world's dread scoff undaunted bear, And face its deadliest frown. To labour and to love, To pardon and endure, To lift thy heart to God above, And keep thy conscience pure; Be this thy constant aim, Thy hope, thy chief delight; What matter who should whisper blame Or who should scorn or slight? What matter, if thy God approve, And if, within thy breast, Thou feel the comfort of His love, The earnest of His rest? DOMESTIC PEACE. Why should such gloomy silence reign, And why is all the house so drear, When neither danger, sickness, pain, Nor death, nor want, have entered here? We are as many as we were That other night, when all were gay And full of hope, and free from care; Yet is there something gone away. The moon without, as pure and calm, Is shining as that night she shone; But now, to us, she brings no balm, For something from our hearts is gone. Something whose absence leaves a void-- A cheerless want in every heart; Each feels the bliss of all destroyed, And mourns the change--but each apart. The fire is burning in the grate As redly as it used to burn; But still the hearth is desolate, Till mirth, and love, and PEACE return. 'Twas PEACE that flowed from heart to heart, With looks and smiles that spoke of heaven, And gave us language to impart The blissful thoughts itself had given. Domestic peace! best joy of earth, When shall we all thy value learn? White angel, to our sorrowing hearth, Return--oh, graciously return! THE THREE GUIDES. [First published in FRASER'S MAGAZINE.] Spirit of Earth! thy hand is chill: I've felt its icy clasp; And, shuddering, I remember still That stony-hearted grasp. Thine eye bids love and joy depart: Oh, turn its gaze from me! It presses down my shrinking heart; I will not walk with thee!