FESTUS.--I would it were. This life's a mystery. The value of a thought cannot be told; But it is clearly worth a thousand lives Like many men's. And yet men love to live As if mere life were worth their living for. What but perdition will it be to most? Life's more than breath and the quick round of blood; It is a great spirit and a busy heart. The coward and the small in soul scarce do live. One generous feeling--one great thought--one deed Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem Than if each year might number a thousand days, Spent as is this by nations of mankind. We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most--feels the noblest--acts the best. Life's but a means unto an end--that end Beginning, mean, and end to all things--God. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. * * * * * HEAVEN. O beauteous God! uncircumscribèd treasure Of an eternal pleasure! Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where thou preparest a glorious place, Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit That builds his hopes upon thy merit, And loves thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity, Where the great King's transparent throne Is of an entire jasper stone? There the eye O' the chrysolite, And a sky Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase,-- And above all thy holy face,-- Makes an eternal charity. When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day Remember us, we pray,-- That where the beryl lies, And the crystal 'bove the skies, There thou mayest appoint us place Within the brightness of thy face,-- And our soul In the scroll Of life and blissfulness enroll, That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah! JEREMY TAYLOR. * * * * * THE SPIRIT-LAND. Father! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed; Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound; And to our eyes the vision is denied. We wander in the country far remote, Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell; Or on the records of past greatness dote, And for a buried soul the living sell; While on our path bewildered falls the night That ne'er returns us to the fields of light. JONES VERY. * * * * * HEAVEN. Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond death's cloudy portal, There is a land where beauty never dies, Where love becomes immortal;