thought—­one deed
  Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem
  Than if each year might number a thousand days,
  Spent as is this by nations of mankind. 
  We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
  In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
  We should count time by heart-throbs.  He most lives
  Who thinks most—­feels the noblest—­acts the best. 
  Life’s but a means unto an end—­that end
  Beginning, mean, and end to all things—­God.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

  O beauteous God! uncircumscribed treasure
  Of an eternal pleasure! 
  Thy throne is seated far
  Above the highest star,
  Where thou preparest a glorious place,
  Within the brightness of thy face,
  For every spirit
  To inherit
  That builds his hopes upon thy merit,
  And loves thee with a holy charity. 
  What ravished heart, seraphic tongue, or eyes
  Clear as the morning rise,
  Can speak, or think, or see
  That bright eternity,
  Where the great King’s transparent throne
  Is of an entire jasper stone? 
  There the eye
  O’ the chrysolite,
  And a sky
  Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase,—­
  And above all thy holy face,—­
  Makes an eternal charity. 
  When thou thy jewels up dost bind, that day
  Remember us, we pray,—­
  That where the beryl lies,
  And the crystal ’bove the skies,
  There thou mayest appoint us place
  Within the brightness of thy face,—­
  And our soul
  In the scroll
  Of life and blissfulness enroll,
  That we may praise thee to eternity.  Allelujah!

JEREMY TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT-LAND.

  Father! thy wonders do not singly stand,
  Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed;
  Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
  In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. 
  In finding thee are all things round us found;
  In losing thee are all things lost beside;
  Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound;
  And to our eyes the vision is denied. 
  We wander in the country far remote,
  Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;
  Or on the records of past greatness dote,
  And for a buried soul the living sell;
  While on our path bewildered falls the night
  That ne’er returns us to the fields of light.

JONES VERY.

* * * * *

HEAVEN.

  Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies,
    Beyond death’s cloudy portal,
  There is a land where beauty never dies,
    Where love becomes immortal;

  A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,
    Whose fields are ever vernal;
  Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
    But blooms for aye eternal.

  We may know how sweet its balmy air,
    How bright and fair its flowers;
  We may not hear the songs that echo there,
    Through those enchanted bowers.