does not join in the worship of Nature and breathe forth a tribute of gratitude. "Prayer," says a beautiful writer,

"Is the soul's sincere desire,
Unuttered or expressed,

The motion of the hidden fire,

Which glows within the breast."

And if this be prayer, then is that longing after the purity and simplicity of Nature which springs instinctively to every heart which can appreciate her beauties, true and acceptable prayer. On such an evening as this, every voice you hear, from the thrilling accents of the smallest bird to the rich cadences of old Ocean himself, call upon the soul to unite in their harmony of harmonies, in praise to the great Creator. And how happy he who is so in unison with Nature as to join with a full soul in her choral-hymn, or unite in secret sympathy with the melody of the flowers as they breath forth their silent thanksgiving!

"Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride.

In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace except the heart!"

JEANIE MORRISON.

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;

But never, never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,

May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een, wi' tears,

They blind my een, wi' saut, saut tears,

And sair and sick I pine,

As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'T was then we twa did part;

Sweet time, sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!

'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear:

And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,

When sitting on that bink,

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think?
When baith bent down ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays,

(The scule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.

O, mornin' life! O, mornin' luve !
O lichtsome days and lang,

When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like simmer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left

The deavin' dinsome toun,

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O' bygane days and me!

THE BRIGHT SIDE.

I am naturally disposed to look at the bright side of life-for life even in its darkest estate has its bright side—and it weighs upon me like an incubus, that it has become my duty to dwell chiefly upon that part of the picture which is the most loathsome and repulsive. The truth is, there is yet much good in this shadowy world. There is in the depths of every human heart an undercurrent of good feeling and noble sentiment pure as the dews of heaven. It is this thought which gilds our darkest moments with light, and in times of gloom and despondency scatters the impending clouds, and opens upon the delighted vision all the starry brilliancy of Heaven. We know, also, that the human soul for the most part is wrapt in mists of doubt and sin, through which the inner light struggles hard to reveal and diffuse itself; but now and then the light will break through, and mingling with the cold exhalations of sin, span the mind with the rainbow of hope and joy.

He must be a misanthrope, indeed, who sees in the human heart nothing but thick darkness. Pitied above all others should he be, whose spiritual eye is not keen enough to discern beneath all the dross of earth, some grain at least of pure gold to redeem his race from utter depravity and loss. Seen or unseen, there it is, gleaming in solitary beauty, and waiting to reward the patient and toiling hand which shall at last bring it to the light. Bury it up, you may, with all manner of evil trash; bury it up the world seems determined to, with sensuality and sin, but there it will be

-that golden" talent,"-unsought and unheeded, perhaps, but still real and genuine, with the signet of heaven stamped upon it,—and you shall sooner blot the sun from the heaven, or dethrone Deity himself, than annihilate it in any soul. Let us all delve, then, till we find it. Find it first, we may and must, in our own souls, and having found it there, we shall have a faith which no sin can weaken and no disappointment destroy, that by earnest and living labor we shall at last discover it in the veins of every human heart. Take courage, then, brothers and sisters, and let faith in your own souls, faith in Humanity, faith in God, be inscribed in letters of light upon the tablet of your hearts.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !)
Awoke, one night, from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An Angel writing in a book of gold;

And to the presence in the room he said:

"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answer'd: "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one"? said Abou. "Nay, not so,"

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still, and said: I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And show'd the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!