And for healing the nations, the tree of life too. 
There’s no need of a candle or sun there, for night
Is excluded forever—­the Lord God is their light. 
But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,
No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there. 
And these joys may be ours—­oh! how blissful the thought,
Ours without money, without price may be bought. 
For us they’ve been purchased by the Son of God,
At an infinite price—­his own precious blood. 
They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose,
’Tis life to accept them,—­’tis death to refuse.

Weston, May 15, 1862.

AN ACROSTIC.

Ah! what is this life?  It’s a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that’s soon ended, so life passes by. 
Pursue the thought further, still there’s likeness in each,
How constant our aim is at what we can’t reach. 
E’en so in a dream, we’ve some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;
Betimes in the morning the prize we pursue,
By the pale lamp of midnight we’re seeking it too;
At all times and seasons, this same fancied good
Repels our advances, yet still is pursued,
Depriving us oft, of rest needful, and food. 
But there’s a pearl of great price, whose worth is untold,
It can never he purchased with silver or gold;
Great peace it confers upon all to whom given,
Ever cheering their pathway, and pointing to heaven. 
Look not to this world for a prize of such worth,
Or hope that to obtain from this perishing earth
Whose essence is spiritual, and heavenly its birth.

Weston, June 6, 1862.

ACROSTIC.

Even now I seem to see thee,
Lovely boy, with thy sweet smile,
Bright and beautiful as when
Reading that holy book, the while
I listened to thee, little dreaming,
Docile, gentle, pleasant child,
God who gave, so soon would take thee,
Even thee, so sweet, so mild. 
But how merciful in chastening
Our father is—­oh! bless his name—­
Your little face was decked with smiles,
Dear child, just when the summons came. 
Escaped from lingering sickness, thou hadst
Nought to mar thy little frame. 
While ye mourn the dear departed,
Each bitter feeling disallow;
Look to heaven, ye broken hearted,
Look, and with submission bow. 
In thy hour of deepest sorrow,
Never murmur, dare not blame;
God, who wounds, alone can heal thee;
Trust his power and praise his name. 
Oh! may we say, each, every one,
“Not my will, but thine be done.”

SHE SLUMBERS STILL.