Though harps are wanting, and bright pinions folded,

We know them by the love-light on their brow.

I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow; Theirs were the soft tone and the soundless tread:

Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow,

They stood "between the living and the dead."

And if my sight, by earthly dimness hindered,
Beheld no hovering cherubim in air,
I doubted not: for spirits know their kindred;
They smiled upon the wingless watchers there.

There have been angels in the gloomy prison,

In crowded halls, by the lone widow's hearth; And, where they passed, the fallen have uprisen, The giddy paused, the mourner's hope had birth.

Oh! many a spirit walks the world unheeded,
That, when its veil of sadness is laid down,
Shall soar aloft with pinions unimpeded,
And wear its glory like a starry crown.

The Disciples' Hymn-book.

MY

18. CONTENTMENT.

Y mind to me a kingdom is ;
Such perfect joy therein I find

As far exceeds all earthly bliss

That world affords, or grows by kind: Though much I want what most men have, Yet doth my mind forbid me crave.

Content I live: this is my stay,

I seek no more than may suffice; I press to bear no haughty sway: Look! what I lack my mind supplies. Lo! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers oft do fall;
I see how those that sit aloft

Mishap doth threaten most of all:

They get, they toil, they spend with care; Such cares my mind could never bear.

I laugh not at another's loss,

I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's pain.

I fear no foe, I scorn no friend,
I dread no death, I fear no end.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poor, though much they have;
And I am rich, with little store.

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lack, I lend; they pine, I live.

I wish not what I have at will;

I wander not to seek for more; I like the plain, I climb no hill;

In greatest storm I sit on shore, And laugh at those that toil in vain To get what must be lost again. This is my choice; for why? I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

Ancient Songs.

Y

19. PEACE.

My soul, there is a country

Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry,

All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles;

And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,
And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst but get thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure!

Henry Vaughan.

The shadow passes from the soul away,

The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there.
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright and blest;

And crowned forever 'midst that shining band, Gathered to heaven's own wreath from every land,

Thy spirit shall find rest.

Thou hast been long alone.

Come to thy mother: on the sabbath-shore,
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once

more

Shall take its wearied one.

In silence wert thou left.
Come to thy sisters: joyously again,

All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan-head

The storm hath swept as o'er a willow's bough. Come to thy father: it is finished now;

Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode,

Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, O bright victory! death by love no place. Come, spirit, to thy God!

Mrs. Hemans.