The church, by deep dissensions riven, To man’s progression shuts the door, And failing thus to enter heaven, The “poor in spirit” walk before. The blood of millions on her hands-- She pampers pride and winks at sin-- A whited sepulchre she stands, Hiding but dead men’s bones within. We do not ask for forms and creeds, Or useless dogmas, old or new, But we _do_ ask for Christian deeds, With man’s progression full in view. Let her be first to aid and bless, And not the first to cast a stone, The while her robes of righteousness Are over foul corruptions thrown. The pure, fresh impulse of to-day, Which thrills within the human heart, As time-worn errors pass away, Fresh life and vigor shall impart. New hopes, like beauteous strangers, wait An entrance to man’s willing breast, And child-like faith unbars the gate, To welcome in each heavenly guest. The new must e’er supplant the old, While Time’s unceasing current flows, Only new beauties to unfold, And brighter glories to disclose; For every crumbling altar-stone That falls upon the way of time, Eternal wisdom hath o’erthrown, To build a temple more sublime. O ye! who dare not trust the soul To guide you in the way to heaven, Remember that the lifeless whole Is quickened by the hidden leaven; And they who, fearlessly and free, The rugged hights of life ascend, With one united voice agree, “_It can be trusted to the end_.” GOOD IN ALL. ’Tis a beautiful thought, by Philosophy taught, That from all things created some good is out-*wrought; That each is for use, and not one for abuse, Which leaves the transgressor no room for excuse. Thus the great, and the small, and the humblest of all, To action and duty alike have a call; And he does the best, who excels all the rest, In making the lot of humanity blest. As Jonathan Myer sat one night by the fire, Watching the flames from the embers expire, O’er his senses there stole, and into his soul, A spell of enchantment he could not control. The wind shook his door, and a terrible roar In his chimney was heard, like the waves on the shore. In wonder, amazed, old Jonathan gazed At the huge oaken back-log as fiercely it blazed. The flames of his fire leaped higher and higher, And out of its brightness looked images dire; Till at length, a great brand straight on end seemed to stand, And then into human proportions expand. Old Jonathan said, with a shake of his head, “There’s nothing in nature I’ve reason to dread, For my conscience is clear, and I’d not have a fear, Should Satan himself at this moment appear.”