'Tis not in the pages of the story

The heart of its ills to beguile, Though he who makes courtship to glory

Gives all that he hath for her smile;

For when from her heights he has won her,
Alas! it is only to prove

That nothing's so sacred as honor,
And nothing so loyal as love!

We can not make bargains for blisses,
Nor catch them like fishes in nets;
And sometimes the thing our life misses
Helps more than the thing which it gets.

For good lieth not in pursuing,

Nor gaining of great nor of small,

But just in the doing, and doing

As we would be done by, is all.

Through envy, through malice, through hating, Against the world, early and late,

No jot of our courage abating,

Our part is to work and to wait.
And slight is the sting of his trouble

Whose winnings are less than his worth;
For he who is honest is noble,
Whatever his fortune or birth.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on memory's wall,
Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunshine, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red berries rest;

Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslips, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep; Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the Autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face; And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

COUNSEL.

SEEK not to walk by borrowed light,
But to keep unto thine own;
Do what thou doest with thy might,
And trust thyself alone!

Work for some good, nor idly lie

Within the human hive;

And, though the outward man should die, Keep thou the heart alive!

Strive not to banish pain and doubt, In pleasure's noisy din ;

The peace thou seeketh for without Is only found within.

If fortune disregard thy claim,

By worth her slight attest;

Nor blush, nor hang the head for shame, When thou hast done thy best.

What thy experience teaches true,
Be vigilant to heed;
The wisdom that we suffer to,
Is wiser than a creed.

Disdain neglect, ignore despair;

On loves and friendships gone Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, And mount right up and on!

TRUST.

AWAY with all life's memories,
Away with hopes, away!
Lord, take me up into Thy love,
And keep me there to-day.

I can not trust to mortal eyes

My weakness and my sin; Temptations He alone can judge, Who knows what they have been.

But I can trust Him who provides
The thirsty ground with dew,
And round the wounded beetle builds
His grassy house anew.

For the same hand that smites with pain,
And sends the wintry snows,
Doth mold the frozen clod again

Into the summer rose.

My soul is melted by that love,
So tender and so true;

I can but cry, My Lord and God,
What wilt Thou have me do?

My blessings all come back to me, And round about me stand; Help me to climb their dizzy stairs, Until I reach Thy hand.

MY CREED.

I HOLD that Christian grace abounds
Where charity is seen; that when
We climb to Heaven, 'tis on the rounds
Of love to men.

I hold all else, named piety,

A selfish scheme, a vain pretense; Where center is not, can there be Circumference?

This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so;

Whether it be the lullabies

That charm to rest the nursling bird, Or that sweet confidence of sighs

And blushes made without a word;

Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door a bush
Of ragged flowers.

'Tis not the wide phylactery,

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, That make us saints; we judge the tree By what it bears.

And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust.

ALICE CARY'S LAST POEM.
EARTH with its dark and dreadful ills
Recedes and fades away;
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills!
Ye gates of death, give way!

My soul is full of whispered song,
My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
Are all alive with light.

My pulses faint and fainter beat,
My faith takes wider bounds;
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
The green, immortal grounds.
The faith to me a courage gives,
Low as the grave to go.

I know that my Redeemer lives;
That I shall live, I know.

The palace walls I almost see

Where dwells my Lord and King. O grave, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?

MODERATION.

To much of joy is sorrowful,

So cares must needs abound; The vine that bears too many flowers Will trail upon the ground.

GOODNESS.

Still from the unsatisfying quest
To know the final plan,

I turn my soul to what is best
In nature and in man.

SUSPICION.

Do not look for wrong and evil,
You will find them if you do;
As you measure for your neighbor,
He will measure back to you.

WISDOM.

Our unwise purposes are wisely crossed;

Being small ourselves, we must essay small things. Th'adventurous mote, with wide, outwearied wings Crawling across a water-drop, is lost.

PHOEBE CARY.

HOEBE CARY was born in Hamilton county,

PHOEBE

near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 24th, 1824, and died in Newport, R. I., July 31st, 1871. Her early educational advantages were superior to those of her sister Alice, whose constant companion she was through life, and from whom she differed radically in person, in mind and in temperament. Phoebe, like her sister, began to write verses at the age of seventeen. One of her earliest poems, "Nearer Home," written in 1842, has achieved a world-wide reputation. Her poems are her chief productions. Her genius did not take kindly to prose. Her verses were very different from those of her sister. Phoebe was a woman of cheerful and independent temper, and her verses were sparkling and hopeful, sunny and cheering, while those of Alice were more somber and redolent of the mournfulness of life. Some of her earlier productions were published in the Ladies' Repository, in Graham's Magazine, and in the Washington National Era. Phoebe was in society a woman of wit and brilliancy, but always kind and genial. She and her sister, in their New York City home, after they had become famous and popular, did many kindly deeds to encourage and bring out obscure young authors of promise. Phoebe was the more robust of the sisters, and, after they had settled in New York City, she from choice assumed the greater share of the household duties, and thereby shortened her time for literary labor, while giving Alice, who was in delicate health for many years, greater opportunities for her literary musings. One of the most touching tributes to the dead ever written is the tribute to Alice, written by Phoebe only a few days before her own death. Phoebe's robust health was not sufficient to carry her through the trial of her sister's death. Weakened by intense sorrow, she began to fail after Alice's death. Her prostration was intensified by a malarial attack, and she was taken to Newport, R. I., for a change of air and scenes. The change delayed, but could not avert, the blow. She grew gradually weaker and died there. Like her sister, Phoebe is mainly regarded as a poet. Her contributions to the "Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary" (Philadelphia, 1850) number onethird of those contained in that volume. Her independent volumes are Poems and Parodies (Boston, 1854), “Poems of Faith, Hope and Love" (New York, 1867), and a large number of the poems in " Hymns for all Christians" (1869). Both of the sisters were women of great native refinement. H. A. V.

NEARER HOME.

ONE Sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er: I'm nearer my home to-day Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm;
Closer death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think,

Father, perfect my trust!

Let my spirit feel in death,
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!

ANSWERED.

I THOUGHT to find some healing clime For her I loved; she found that shore, That city, whose inhabitants

Are sick and sorrowful no more.

I asked for human love for her;
The Loving knew how best to still
The infinite yearning of a heart,
Which but infinity could fill.

Such sweet communion had been ours,

I prayed that it might never end;

My prayer is more than answered, now; I have an angel for my friend.

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe
The troubled anguish of her breast;
And, numbered with the loved and called,
She entered on untroubled rest.