ASPIRATION.

As thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be in us. — Jesus.

As we are religious, we are in a state of aspiration and unsatisfied desire. We lie open to the infinite universe, and keep the vigils of the exposed and trustful. JAMES MARTINEAU.

MAN'S

AN'S Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his Greatness; it is because there is an Infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite bury under the Finite.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

WHEN your Ideal World, wherein the whole

man has been dimly struggling and inexpressibly languishing to work, becomes revealed, and thrown open, you discover, with amazement enough, that it is "here or nowhere." The situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here, in this poor,

miserable, hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal: work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free. THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE problem of contentment, then, is this,—

to be contented with our present condition, whatever it may be, and yet endeavor to improve it and make it better: in short, not to lay much stress, one way or the other, on our outward position, but to have the fountain of contentment within, in a full and active soul.

Such contentment is not sluggishness. A man may be contented where he is, because he is conscious he is full of life, and must make progress.

True contentment is noble. It is the perfect poise of a well-balanced mind; of one who can wait when patience is necessary and work when work is timely, not daunted by failure, not elated by success.

The root of discontent is self-love; the root of true content is work done in love for true ends. True contentment is paired with a true discontent, and the one and the other lead us to the mercy-seat of God, and fill us more and more with the spirit of prayer.

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

I aspire to be, and am not, comforts
ROBERT BROWNING.

THE door to any outward heaven lies through

an inward heaven. If we do not first enter "the kingdom of heaven which is within us," we shall not enter any heaven above us or outside of us. JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

A

THE BEGGAR.

BEGGAR through the world am I,
From place to place I wander by.

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,

For Christ's sweet sake and charity !

A little of thy steadfastness,

Rounded with leafy gracefulness,

Old oak, give me,

That the world's blasts may round me blow,

And I yield gently to and fro,

While my stout-hearted trunk below

And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and night

Rude tempest-shock and withering blight, —

That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance

And the strong tide of circumstance, -
Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine,

-

That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,
And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright, -
O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!

Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,

Oh, give, to strengthen me.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell

G"

A PRAYER.

IRD me with the strength of thy steadfast hills!
The speed of thy streams give me!

In the spirit that calms, with the life that thrills,

I would stand or run for thee.

Let me be thy voice, or thy silent power,

As the cataract or the peak,

An eternal thought, in my earthly hour,
Of the living God to speak.

Clothe me in the rose tints of thy skies
Upon morning summits laid;

Robe me in the purple and gold that flies
Through thy shuttle of light and shade;
Let me rise and rejoice in thy smile aright,
As mountains and forests do;

Let me welcome thy twilight and thy night
And wait for thy dawn anew!

Give me of the brook's faith, joyously sung
Under clank of its icy chain !

Give me of the patience that hides among
Thy hill-tops in mist and rain!