The city’s shining towers we may not see
    With our dim earthly vision,
  For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
    That opes the gates elysian.

  But sometimes, when adown the western sky
    A fiery sunset lingers,
  Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
    Unlocked by unseen fingers.

  And while they stand a moment half ajar,
    Gleams from the inner glory
  Stream brightly through the azure vault afar,
    And half reveal the story.

  O land unknown!  O land of love divine! 
    Father, all-wise, eternal! 
  O, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine
    Into those pastures vernal!

NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY PRIEST.

* * * * *

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS.

    Tell me, ye winged winds,
      That round my pathway roar,
    Do ye not know some spot
      Where mortals weep no more? 
    Some lone and pleasant dell,
      Some valley in the west,
    Where, free from toil and pain,
      The weary soul may rest? 
  The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
  And sighed for pity as it answered,—­“No.”

    Tell me, thou mighty deep. 
      Whose billows round me play,
    Know’st thou some favored spot,
      Some island far away,
    Where weary man may find
      The bliss for which he sighs,—­
    Where sorrow never lives,
      And friendship never dies? 
  The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
  Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer,—­“No.”

    And thou, serenest moon,
      That, with such lovely face,
    Dost look upon the earth,
      Asleep in night’s embrace;
    Tell me, in all thy round
      Hast thou not seen some spot
    Where miserable man
      May find a happier lot? 
  Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
  And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,—­“No.”

    Tell me, my secret soul,
      O, tell me, Hope and Faith,
    Is there no resting-place
      From sorrow, sin, and death? 
    Is there no happy spot
      Where mortals may be blest,
    Where grief may find a balm,
      And weariness a rest? 
  Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,
  Waved their bright wings, and whispered,—­“Yes, in heaven!”

CHARLES MACKAY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

  There is a land of pure delight,
    Where saints immortal reign;
  Infinite day excludes the night,
    And pleasures banish pain.

  There everlasting spring abides,
    And never-withering flowers;
  Death, like a narrow sea, divides
    This heavenly land from ours.

  Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
    Stand dressed in living green;
  So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
    While Jordan rolled between.