SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned. And sun and stars for evermore have set, The things which our weak judgments, here have spurned, The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us out of life's dark night, As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans were right. And how what seemed reproof was love most true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,

God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, He heeded not our cry,

Because His wisdom to the end could see. And e'en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good.

And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, We find the wormwood, and reoel and shrink,

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine Pours out this portion for our lips to drink.

And if some friend we love is lying low, Where human kisses cannot reach his face,

Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath

Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend, And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death

Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within, and all God's workings see, We could interpret all this doubt and strife,

And for each mystery could find a key 1

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!

God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,"

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if, through patient toil, we reach the land

Where tired feet, with sandals loose,may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand,

I think that we will say, " God knew the best!"

"'TIS A JOY TO PRESS THE PILLOW OF A COTTAGE CHAMBER BED."

BY COATES KINNEY.

WHEN the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres. And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, 'Tis a joy to press the pillow of a cot tage chamber bed. And listen to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

Every tinkle on the shingles has an echo in the heart, And a thousand dreary fancies into busy being start; And a thousand recollections weave their bright hues into woof, As I listen to the patter of the soft rain on the roof.

There, in fancy, comes my mother, as she used to years agone, To survey the infant sleepers ere she left them till the dawn;

I can see her bending o'er me, as I listen to the strain Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister, with her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed cherub brother - a serene, angelic pair, - Glide around my wakeful pillow, with their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me with her eyes' delicious blue. I forget, as gazing on her, that her heart was all untrue; I remember that I loved her as I ne'er may love again, And my heart's quick pulses vibrate to the patter of the rain.

There is naught in art's bravuras that can work with such a spell, In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, where the holy passions swell, As that melody of nature, - that subdued, subduing strain, Which is played upon the shingles by the patter of the rain.