JOY AFTER SORROW.

COMETH sunshine after rain,
After mourning joy again,
After heavy, bitter grief
Dawneth surely sweet relief;

And my soul, who from her height
Sank to realms of woe and night,
Wingeth now to heaven her flight.

He, whom this world dares not face,
Hath refreshed me with his grace,
And his mighty hand unbound
Chains of hell about me wound;
Quicker, stronger, leaps my blood,
Since his mercy, like a flood,
Poured o'er all my heart for good.

Bitter anguish have I borne,
Keen regret my heart hath torn,
Sorrow dimmed my weeping eyes,
Satan blinded me with lies;
Yet at last am I set free,
Help, protection, love, to me
Once more true companions be.

Ne'er was left a helpless prey,
Ne'er with shame was turned away,
He who gave himself to God,
And on him had cast a load.

Who in God his hope hath placed
Shall not life in pain outwaste,
Fullest joy he yet shall taste.

Though to-day may not fulfil
All thy hopes, have patience still;
For perchance to-morrow's sun
Sees thy happier days begun.

As God willeth march the hours,
Bringing joy at last in showers,
And whate'er we asked is ours.

When my heart was vexed with care,
Filled with fears, wellnigh despair;
When with watching many a night
On me fell pale sickness' blight;
When my courage failed me fast,
Camest thou, my God, at last,
And my woes were quickly past.

Now as long as here I roam,

On this earth have house and home,
Shall this wondrous gleam from thee
Shine through all my memory.

To my God I yet will cling,
All my life the praises sing

That from thankful hearts outspring.

Every sorrow, every smart,
That the eternal Father's heart
Hath appointed me of yore,
Or hath yet for me in store,
As my life flows on I'll take
Calmly, gladly for his sake,
No more faithless murmurs make.

I will meet distress and pain,

I will greet e'en death's dark reign,
I will lay me in the grave,
With a heart still glad and brave.
Whom the Strongest doth defend,
Whom the Highest counts his friend,
Cannot perish in the end.

PAUL GERHARDT, 1659. Translated by
CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.

COUPLETS.

WHEN thou hast thanked thy God for every

blessing sent,

What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?

When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone,

Which must be shaped, or else aside as useless thrown.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D. D.

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA.

The following lines are a paraphrase of some Arabic verses quoted in "Palfrey's Travels in Arabia." The author is a brother of Arthur Arnold, and second son of Robert Coles Arnold, a magistrate for Sussex, England. He was born June 10, 1832, and was educated at Oxford, where he gained honors as a classical scholar and a writer of poetry. After having published a small volume of poems, he went, in early life, to India, where he resided for seven years, becoming proficient in the language and literature of the country. He was principal of the Government Sanscrit college at Poonah, in the Deccan. Resigning this appointment on account of the ill health of his wife, in 1860, he returned to England, where he published a "History of Lord Dalhousie's Administration," another volume of poems, and a translation of the "Euterpe" of Herodotus. Becoming editorial writer for the London Telegraph, he rose to the post of editor-in-chief. In 187) he published a remarkable poem, entitled "The Light of Asia," the most noteworthy poetical contribution to English literature made during that year. Mr. Arnold published other volumes in India and England besides those mentioned. "Azan" is the hour of afternoon prayer in Moslem communities. The following text has been verified (in the author's absence from London) by Mr. Edwin Lester Arnold, his son.

Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!
Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in the light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, -
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death, - for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

Be ye certain all seems love,

Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be
ye
stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou Love divine! Thou Love alway!

He that died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

JOY IN SORROW.

CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND, a clergyman of the Church of England, of peculiar views, was born in 1798, and educated at Cambridge. He never preached, but devoted himself to literature and art, and to the elucidation of the mysteries of mesmerism. At his death, which occurred in London, Feb. 25. 1858, he left his manuscripts, containing a record of his religious views, to Mr. Charles Dickens, for publication. GIVE me thy joy in sorrow, gracious Lord, And sorrow's self shall like to joy appear! Although the world should waver in its sphere, I tremble not, if thou thy peace afford. But, thou withdrawn, I am but as a chord That vibrates to the pulse of hope and fear: Nor rest I more than harps which to the air Must answer when we place their tuneful

board

Against the blast, which thrill unmeaning woe Even in their sweetness. So no earthly wing E er sweeps me but to sadden. Oh, place thou My heart beyond the world's sad vibrating: And where but in thyself? Oh, circle me, That I may feel no touches save of thee.

CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND.

VIA INTELLIGENTIÆ.

OH, wash thine eyes with many a bitter tear; And all things shall grow clear.

Bend that proud forehead nearer to the ground;

And catch a far foot's sound.

Say! wouldst thou know what faithful suppliants feel?

Thou, too, even thou, must kneel.

Do but thy part; and ask not why or how: Religion is a vow.

They sang not idle songs; pledges they made For thee, an infant, laid

In the Church's lucid bosom. These must thou

Fulfil, or else renounce! Fulfil them now. A cross, and not a wreath, was planted on thy brow.

But soon I found that I was left alone
To win my way to an immortal crown:
My hopes were darkened; those I cast aside,
And parted quickly with my spirit's pride.
But still I bound my love around my breast,
I cared not for the storm that took the rest;
This was my own, my idol; could I spare
The single flower that made my life so fair?

It faded, like the tints of evening's sky,
And left me all alone to weep and die.
But then a voice rose sweetly, — “I am here;
Take up thy cross, and dry the murmuring
tear."

I clasped it to me! 't was no cross, I found,
No burden held me, and no fetters bound:
Gladly I followed in his steps, who trod
The path of sorrows to his Father, God.

1867.

ELIZABETH A E. GODWIN.

OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

WILLIAM KNOx, a Scottish poet, was born in Roxburgh, Scotland, in 1789, and died Nov. 12, 1825. Walter Scott says that his talent showed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry. The principal collection of his verses was published in 1825, with the title, "The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems " The following was a favorite of President Lincoln, who found it in a newspaper without a name, and was deeply impressed by the last stanza, as if in anticipation of his own sudden end. Knox wrote the lines beginning, "Harp of Sion, pure and holy."

OH, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and

the high,

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep.

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the
weed,

That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same things our fathers have
been:

We see the same sights that our fathers have

seen,

We drink the same stream, and we feel the

-

same sun,

And run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think:

From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink:

To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling:

But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died,ay! they died; and we things. that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,