Then could I wake a thrilling strain
  That would with mystic power enchain,
  But now, alas! my untaught lyre
  Can to no lofty themes aspire.

  How many scenes of joy and grief,
  Trac’d o’er life’s ever-varying leaf,
  Have pass’d since first thy mother smiled
  On thee, a little helpless child.

  Though few thy years on earth have been,
  In the past view, dark clouds are seen;
  The cup prepared for thee to drain,
  Has not been all unmix’d with pain,

  The future now before thee lies,
  Still unreveal’d to human eyes;
  But to imagination’s view,
  Bright visions gleam the vista through.

  The future, who would dare to look
  Into that still unopened book? 
  What mortal would presume to read
  The hidden mysteries there decreed.

  Oh, Ellen, let it be thy prayer,
  What e’er of ill is written there,
  That thou may’st ever bear thy part,
  With humble and submissive heart.

  But if its pages should unfold
  Thy destiny, inscribed in gold,
  If radiant joy, with pinions bright,
  Should round thy path shed rosy light,

  Oh, then forget not those whom God
  Has chasten’d with a heavy rod,
  Let the poor stricken mourner find
  In thee, a friend sincere and kind.

  And when old Time, with sly embrace,
  Steals the bright rose-tint from thy face,
  Still keep thy heart in love and truth,
  Guileless as in thy early youth.

  As you review each closing year,
  May no grim phantoms there appear
  Casting dark shadows in the scene,
  Thy view and happiness between.

  But in their stead may sweet content,
  A consciousness of life well spent,—­
  A trusting heart to thee be given,
  And last of all a crown in heav’n.

Human Thought

Oh, how deep and unfathomable is human thought.  It descends into the lowest depths of the ocean, and into the mines, caverns and inmost recesses of the earth, or is borne aloft upon the soaring pinions of imagination, to the vaulted, star-lit sky above our heads; we can trace the azure canopy, and wander from star to star, or contemplate the silvery moon, in all her full-orbed glory, or trace the golden sun, as he runs his journey through the heavens, and hides behind the crimson curtains of the west, in majestic splendor.  And though the body be confined to the restless, feverish couch of pain, thought flies untrammelled through the circuit of the globe, far—­far to the frigid regions of the north, where almost eternal winter reigns, and we view the hardy inhabitant of that sterile clime, wrapped in his furs, drawn by the swift-footed reindeer, across the barren glebe.