and he, the heir of poverty, whose portion had been want, and his inalienable heritage, suffering; whose path had known no pleasant places; whose life had had no brightness within that glorious city.  They placed bright crowns, alike woven from the fragrant branches of the far-spreading “Tree of Life,” around their spirit-brows; they decked them alike in white robes, whose lustre many ages shall not dim; alike they placed in their hands the harps whose music shall roll for ever over (sic) the the hills of jasper; and alike they pointed them to the gleaming battlements, to the still skies over whose surface the shadow of a cloud hath never floated; to the “many mansions” which throw the shadow of their shining portals on the rippling waters of the “River of Life,” and to far more of glory “which it hath never entered into the heart of man to conceive of,” and told them they should “go no more out for ever.”

WHAT IS NOBLE?

WHAT is noble? to inherit Wealth, estate, and proud degree?  There must be some other merit, Higher yet than these for me.  Something greater far must enter Into life’s majestic span; Fitted to create and centre True nobility in man!

  What is noble? ’tis the finer
    Portion of our mind and heart: 
  Linked to something still diviner
    Than mere language can impart;
  Ever prompting—­ever seeing
    Some improvement yet to plan;
  To uplift our fellow-being—­
    And like man to feel for man!

  What is noble? is the sabre
    Nobler than the humble spade? 
  There’s a dignity in labour
    Truer than e’er Pomp arrayed! 
  He who seeks the mind’s improvement
    Aids the world—­in aiding mind! 
  Every great, commanding movement
    Serves not one—­but all mankind.

  O’er the Forge’s heat and ashes—­
    O’er the Engine’s iron head—­
  Where the rapid Shuttle flashes,
    And the Spindle whirls its thread;
  There is Labour lowly tending
    Each requirement of the hour;
  There is genius still extending
    Science—­and its world of power!

THE ANEMONE HEPATICA.

TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream.  While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and its end; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current of their thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow.

“This is a miserable world,” said one; “the black shroud of sorrow overhangs everything here.”

“Not so,” replied the other; “Sorrow is not a shroud.  It is only the covering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps.”

Just then they entered an oak-grove.  It was early spring, and the trees were bare, but last year’s leaves lay thick as snow-drifts upon the ground.

“The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think,” said the last speaker.  “There, push away the leaves, and you will find it.  How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, and purple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees!  But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are under the dead leaves.”