High thoughts! 
They visit us
In moments when the soul is dim and darkened;
They come to bless,
After the vanities to which we hearkened: 
When weariness hath come upon the spirit—­
(Those hours of darkness which we all inherit)—­
Bursts there not through a glint of warm sunshine,
A winged thought which bids us not repine? 
In joy and gladness,
In mirth and sadness,
Come signs and tokens;
Life’s angel brings,
Upon its wings,
Those bright communings
The soul doth keep—­
Those thoughts of heaven
So pure and deep!

ROBERT NICOLL.

* * * * *

NEARER HOME.

One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o’er and o’er;
I am nearer home to-day
That 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!

PHOEBE CARY.

* * * * *

MEETING ABOVE.

  If yon bright stars which gem the night
    Be each a blissful dwelling-sphere
  Where kindred spirits reunite
    Whom death hath torn asunder here,—­
  How sweet it were at once to die,
    To leave this blighted orb afar! 
  Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky,
    And soar away from star to star.

  But oh, how dark, how drear, how lone,
    Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
  If, wandering through each radiant one,
    We failed to meet the loved of this! 
  If there no more the ties shall twine
    Which death’s cold hand alone could sever,
  Ah, would those stars in mockery shine,
    More joyless, as they shine forever!

  It cannot be,—­each hope, each fear
    That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
  Proclaims there is a happier sphere
    Than this bleak world that holds us now. 
  There, Lord, thy wayworn saints shall find
    The bliss for which they longed before;
  And holiest sympathies shall bind
    Thine own to thee forevermore.

  O Jesus, bring us to that rest,
    Where all the ransomed shall be found,
  In thine eternal fulness blest,
    While ages roll their cycles round.