THE WOOD-PATH.

BY MISS S. C. EDGARTON.

A PATH there is, a sweet wild path, that steals through woodland bowers,

And all along its verdant sides spring up soft smiling

flowers;

O, know ye where that pleasant path hath hid its wealth

of shade,

Beneath what tall o'erhanging trees, within what far-off glade?

Come, we will go and trace its way within this fragrant woods,

Where solitude hath built a shrine for her religious moods; How tremblingly the golden light drops through the parted boughs!

The very light of all most sweet, to consecrate our vows.

Come, lead thy thoughts, nor let them rove on life's forbidden things;

There's music here beneath the leaves, the fluttering of bright wings;

There's beauty here, - the verdant gleams of softly-filtered light,

And flowers, and moss, and tufted grass, and many a small, new sight.

There's silence here- yet nature speaks in every soft low breath

That steals, a viewless spirit, by, like sweet relieving

death;

And in the murmur of the waves that comes from faroff brooks,

And in the faint, mysterious sighs of lone and shadowy

nooks.

The rose-brier throws its slender boughs in arches by the

way,

And golden rods, with starry flowers, yield many a cheer

ful ray;

But something sweeter, holier far, broods in the solemn

air:

'Tis all unseen, yet deeply felt, the impulse of high

prayer.

We cannot tread with careless hearts beneath green, breathing trees;

There's something which forbids our mirth in every murmuring breeze:

Insensibly our spirits yield to spells we cannot see,

And, sanctified by every sound, we bend the prayerful

knee.

Far to a lone, soft-gliding brook this grassy pathway

leads;

And even this, with winning tone, within the spirit

pleads:

We can but kneel upon its brink, and bathe the uplifted

brow,

And breathe, in low and fervent tones, some penitential

Vow.

O, hallowed by a thousand thoughts is this wild, woodland path;

A thousand dear memorials its very sunshine hath;

And every shadow that around its mossy borders falls, Some tender look, or soft sweet words, or thrilling tone recalls.

THE TWIN SISTERS.

THE BEAUTIFUL AND THE RELIGIOUS.

BY T. B. THAYER.

THE beautiful is one of the great elements, so to speak, of God's physical creation; and a love of the beautiful one of the great elements of his moral and spiritual creation. Between these there is a most delightful and delicate harmony; the outer world answering in its wondrous adaptations to all the wants of the world that is within. The magnificence and majesty, the gentleness and purity of nature are not without their relation to a spirit in man that hath power to appreciate and enjoy; and the soul that hath been constituted with strong and ever-increasing aspirations, is not left to thirst in vain, but findeth, opened for its desires, deep and inexhaustible fountains in the glory and beauty of the sky, and the earth, and the sea.

Do we seek the beauty of the grand and startling? The dark and stern mountain, towering

into the heavens, the awful volcano pouring its lava tide of ruin and death, the earthquake with its heavy and thundering tramp over hill and valley, the tempest stooping upon the earth with its black and sweeping wing, - these furnish some of the sources of the terribly beautiful. Would we have the beauty of Wisdom? Look up into the far depths above, and consider the harmony of ten thousand suns and systems, and listen to the music of ten thousand times ten thousand worlds, as they roll on their everlasting courses. Is it the beauty of Benevolence we would see? The earth is full of tokens and revelations, giving witness of its presence and influence. The changing seasons, with their manytoned voices, the day and night, the earth, the great deep, the light-winged bird, the wild beast and the tame, with their various instincts, and the countless arrangements for the good and the joy of man, - these have each and all impressed upon them the seal of beneficent beauty. And doth one say that his heart is touched with a love of the gentle ? and doth it listen for the low, sweet breathings of the beauty that liveth only in the pure, and quiet, and delicate? The Spring cometh at his call, and is around him with its soft breezes, and its warm sun, and gentle rains, and singing birds, and opening buds, each with