A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

BLESSINGS, O Father! shower—

Father of mercies ! round his precious head ;
On his lone walks, and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray Thee not

For earthly treasure to that most beloved-
Fame, fortune, power; oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will:
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of Thee,

Thy watching presence, Thy sustaining love,
His bosom-guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien

May sit undimmed! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams,
Remembered faintly, gleams--
Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with Thee,
Made by the Spirit free!

And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,

That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven

His Saviour's face!

MRS HEMANS.

THROUGH PEACE TO LIGHT.

I Do not ask, O Lord, that life may be
A pleasant road;

I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
Aught of its load;

I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet:

I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet.

For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead,
Lead me aright—

Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed

Through Peace to Light.

I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst shed
Full radiance here ;

Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
Without a fear.

I do not ask my cross to understand,
My way to see-

Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand
And follow Thee.

Joy is like restless day; but peace divine
Like quiet night.

Lead me, O Lord, till perfect day shall shine,
Through Peace to Light.

A. A. PROCTOR.

SANCTA THERESA.

THIS is no heaven!

And yet they told me that all heaven was here, This life the foretaste of a life more dear;

That all beyond this convent-cell

Was but a fairer hell;

That all was ecstasy and song within,

That all without was tempest, gloom, and sin. Ah me, it is not so ;

This is no heaven, I know!

This is not rest!

And yet they told me that all rest was here Within these walls the medicine and the cheer For broken hearts; that all without

Was trembling, weariness, and doubt:

This the sure ark which floats above the wave, Strong in life's flood to shelter and to save; This the still mountain-lake,

Which winds can never shake.

Ah me, it is not so ;

This is not rest, I know!

This is not light!

And yet they told me that all light was here,

Light of the holier sphere ;

That, through this lattice seen,

Clearer and more serene,

The clear stars ever shone,

Shining for me alone;

And the bright moon more bright,

Seen in the lone blue night

By ever-watching eyes,

The sun of convent-skies.

Ah me, it is not so ;

This is not light, I know!

This is not love!

And yet they told me that all love was here,
Sweetening the silent atmosphere ;

All green, without a faded leaf,

All smooth, without a fret, or cross, or grief;
Fresh as young May,

Yet calm as autumn's softest day ;

No balm like convent-air,

No hues of Paradise so fair!

A jealous, peevish, hating world beyond;
Within, love's loveliest bond:

Envy and discord in the haunts of men ;
Here, Eden's harmony again.

Ah me, it is not so ;

Here is no love, I know!

This is not home!

And yet for this I left my girlhood's bower, Shook the fresh dew from April's budding flower,

Cut off my golden hair,

Forsook the dear and fair,

And fled, as from a serpent's eyes,
Home and its holiest charities;
Instead of all things beautiful,
Took this decaying skull,

Hour after hour to feed my eye,

As if foul gaze like this could purify;
Broke the sweet ties that God had given,
And sought to win His heaven

By leaving home-work all undone,
The home-race all unrun,

The fair home-garden all untilled,

The home-affections all unfilled;

As if these common rounds of work and love
Were drags to one whose spirit soared above
Life's tame and easy circle, and who fain

Would earn her crown by self-sought toil and pain;
Led captive by a mystic power,

Dazzled by visions in the moody hour,
When, sick of earth, and self, and vanity,
I longed to be alone or die ;

Mocked by my own self-brooding heart,
And plied with every wile and art

That could seduce a young and yearning soul
To start for some mysterious goal,

And seek in cell or savage waste

The cure of blighted hope, and love misplaced.

Yet 'tis not the hard bed, nor lattice small,
Nor the dull damp of this cold convent-wall;
'Tis not the frost on these thick prison-bars,
Nor the keen shiver of these wintry stars;