High thoughts They are with me When, deep within the bosom of the forest, Thy mourning melody Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle! pourest. When the young sunbeams glance among the trees-- When on the ear comes the soft song of bees-- When every branch has its own favorite bird And songs of summer from each thicket heard!-- Where the owl flitteth, Where the roe sitteth, And holiness Seems sleeping there; While nature's prayer Goes up to heaven In purity, Till all is glory And joy to me! High thoughts! They are my own When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow, When I can follow every fitful shadow-- When I can watch the winds among the corn, And see the waves along the forest borne; Where blue-bell and heather Are blooming together, And far doth come The Sabbath bell, O'er wood and fell; I hear the beating Of nature's heart: Heaven is before me-- God! thou art. High thoughts! They visit us In moments when the soul is dim and darkened; They come to bless, After the vanities to which we hearkened: When weariness hath come upon the spirit-- (Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)-- Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine, A wingèd thought which bids us not repine? In joy and gladness, In mirth and sadness, Come signs and tokens; Life's angel brings, Upon its wings, Those bright communings The soul doth keep-- Those thoughts of heaven So pure and deep! ROBERT NICOLL. * * * * * NEARER HOME. One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home to-day That I ever have been before; Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea; Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown! But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream. That leads at last to the light. Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism. Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think; Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith! PHOEBE CARY. * * * * * MEETING ABOVE.