THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er woodland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place O, to abide in the desert with thee. Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth; Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place O, to abide in the desert with thee! HOGG. SOME feelings are quite untranslateable. No language has yet been found for them. They gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet, when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty all at once; just as glow-worms, which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candles are lighted, are found to be only worms like so many others. TELL me, my soul, why art thou restless? Why dost thou look forward to the future with such strong desire? The present is thine; and the past; and the future shall be! O that thou didst look forward to the great hereafter with half the longing wherewith thou longest for an earthly future, which a few days at most will bring thee! to the meeting of the dead, as to the meeting of the absent! Thou glorious spirit land! O, that I could behold thee as thou art, the region of life, and love, and the dwelling-place of those beloved ones, whose being has flowed onward like a silver-clear stream into the solemn-sounding main, into the ocean of eternity. PAINFUL, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and undervalued by those we love. But this, too, in our life, must we learn to bear without a murmur; for it is tale often repeated. NOTICES. Mess. Waite, Peirce & Co. have handed us three little volumes entitled “Panting after Holiness," "Sacred Meditations,” and “S. S. Teacher's Manual." The former claims as its author one of our own contributors, and is a very interesting and instructive memoir of a young female friend of the writer. There are passages in it which have reminded us strongly of the beautiful narratives, "The Dairyman's Daughter," and "The Young Cottager," by Leigh Richmond, than which we can bestow no higher praise, "Sacred Meditations" were written, if we may presume to guess at the author, by the lady of a Professor well known in the literary world. They are very beautiful comments on select passages of Scripture. The meditation on "The Lord is my shepherd," is alone worth the price of the volume. "The Teacher's Manual" is the most concise yet comprehensive and useful companion for S. School Teachers which we have ever yet seen. We are indebted to our publisher in Boston for a bound volume of "The Guide to Holiness." The paper and type are good, and the read*ing matter of the first order. As a religious periodical, we should think it equal if not superior to any of that class published. For the Ladies' Casket. SONNET. "Nor yet! not yet! the twilight hour is past, And never falt'ring till thy task is done! Upon thine altar human hearts are laid, Whose value fame and treasures ne'er outweighed., H. J. W. For the Ladies' Casket. THE TROUBLER OF HIS OWN HOUSE. BY B. H. S. "1 SAY, Mrs. Latham, where's that quarter of a dollar I gave you this morning? I can't make change for this fellow at the door without it. I haven't got a single cent." "But, husband, I can't spare it," said Mrs. Latham, in a very doleful voice. "I was just going over to pay Poll Bush for them mittens she has been knitting for 'Lijah. She said she could n't do without it longer than to-day, and I told her she should certainly have it. I can't spare the quarter of a dollar, possibly." "But look o' here," coaxed the husband, "there's a fellow at the door with a lot of catskins and brussels, that I can make a |