LIFE'S DISCIPLINE.

N hours of overhanging gloom

The seasons roll away,

December's shades the life entomb

Whose years are in their May:

Affection, with strong trees of love,

Encamped my cot around,

But Death's keen axe in that fair grove

Has never ceased to sound.

Those stalwart guardians erect

No more my vision meet,

No more their bowering shades protect

My home from western heat;

Their merriment of rustling leaves

Delights and cheers no more;

The unchecked gale my casement cleaves,

Unhindered rains inpour.

What if my joy had been unchecked,

Life always bright and gay;

If no fair project had been wrecked,

No loved friend torn away,

These days had been too free from pain

For mortal life to be,

And not a fitting school to train

For immortality.

Let me then own God's perfect skill
Who knows so well to train;
Commingling sweetness with the ill,

And pleasure with the pain;

Who makes life not too short nor long;

And as our wisest Friend

Builds up our frames not weak nor strong To fit His purposed end.

THE POWER OF THE WORLD TO COME.

HENE'ER apart I meditate

On blessed service, deep repose,

Of that unknown transcendent state,

Prepared in highest heaven for those

Who in their brief career below,
With constant faith, courageous heart,
Embraced the toil, endured the woe
And played in both the winning part,

I count Earth's varied sufferings,
That on the hapless body prey,
As but the insect's transient stings-
A moment's smart, then passed away!

TRUST.

HY should I fear these woes that flock,
In night Egyptian, round my breast?

'Tis but the shadow of that Rock

'Neath which I rest.

Is not this portal to the tomb
Long, dark, and lonely though it be,

Better, than if, 'mid leaf and bloom
Death came to me?

Let me not then in rebel rage
Resist the hand upon me laid;

Nor beat my wings against the cage
Thy hand hath made.

When faith is drooping to expire,

And round my back foams seething spray, The midnight waves are bright with fire

Unseen by day.

As blind men walk the well-known street,
As ships hold on their pathless flight,

As sentries pace th' accustomed beat,
Though it be night,

Thus, let us climb th' ascent of Pain,
Those steps so many martyrs trod;
For each steep eminence we gain
Is nearer God.

Better His pruning blade should hack Each useless bough, each wayward shoot; If their luxuriance caused a lack

Of heavenly fruit.