Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft!" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,

The wife of thy bosom in sorrow depart,

"Look aloft!" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,

To that soil where affection is ever in bloom.

And oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy
heart,

And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft!" and

depart.

J. LAWRENCE.

THE VICTORY OF LIFE.

ONCE made search, in hope to find
Abiding peace of mind.

I toiled for riches-as if these
Could bring the spirit ease!

I turned aside to books and lore,
Still baffled as before.

I tasted then of love and fame,
But hungered still the same.

I chose the sweetest paths I knew,
Where only roses grew.

Then fell a voice from out the skies,
With message in this wise:

"O my disciple! is it meet

That roses tempt thy feet?

"Thy Master, even for His head, Had only thorns instead!"

Then, drawn as by a heavenly grace,
I left the flowery place,

And walked on cutting flints and stones.
I said with tears and groans:

"O Lord! my feet, where Thou dost lead, Shall follow though they bleed!"

As then I saw He chose my path
For discipline, not wrath,

I walked in weakness, till at length
I suffered unto strength.

Nor ever were my trials done,
But straightway new begun.

For when I learned to cast disdain
Upon some special pain,

He gave me sharper strokes to bear,
And pierced me to despair.

Until, so sorely was I pressed,

I broke beneath the test,

And fell within the Tempter's power.
Yet in the evil hour,

Bound hand and foot, I cried, “O Lord! Break Thou the three-fold cord!"

And while my soul was at her prayer,
He snatched me from the snare.

I then approached the gate of death,
Where, struggling for my breath,

I smote my coward knees in fear,
Aghast to stand so near!

Yet when I shivered in the gloom,
Down-gazing in the tomb,

"O Lord!" I cried, "bear Thou my sin, And I will enter in!"

But He by whom my soul was tried
Not yet was satisfied.

For then he crushed me with a blow
Of more than mortal woe,

Till bitter death had been relief

To my more bitter grief.

Yet, bleeding, panting in the dust,
I knew His judgment just;

And, as a lark with broken wing
Sometimes has heart to sing,

So I, all shattered, still could raise
To His dear name the praise!

Henceforth I know a holy prayer
To conquer pain and care.

For when my struggling flesh grows faint, And murmurs with complaint,

My spirit cries, Thy will be done!

And finds the victory won.

THEODORE TILTON.