Soon the tears that now are starting
With their causes will be o'er;
Soon the hands now clasped in parting
Will be joined forevermore.
We have shared one home together,
We have sat around one board;
And we'll find a home together
In the Paradise restored!
WHAT THE DAUGHTER OF THE CLOUD SAID.
Down the spout a torrent gushed, to be pent up in an old, dark tub, and made the slave of the washerwoman. Would it not have been better for thee, O water, to have fallen in the beautiful forest? to lie in the bosom of the lily, or become a looking glass for the many colored insects? "I would be useful," whispered the daughter of the cloud, "therefore I have stooped to an humble action—I left the abode of the lightning. My lot is a lowly one; my life full of sorrow and humiliation. I must pass through a fiery ordeal; I must be cast out and despised by those whom I have served. But then will be the time of my exaltation: the blessed Sun will take pity upon me, and make me a gem of beauty in the angels' highway!"
[Though no application has been made of this similitude, yet the truth designed to be taught is easily gathered: The Christian may be called to many a lowly act—to a ministration which will subject him to reproach and suffering here, but the day of exaltation is sure to come. "He that humbleth himself shall be exalted." The day hastens when from the heavens the Saviour will descend, "who will transform the body of our humiliation, that it may be conformed to the body of his glory."—Phil. 3:21 (Am. Bible Union Trans.). How glorious will the humble workers of earth appear when they are beautified by the Sun of righteousness in the resurrection morning! That will be all Easter day of surpassing loveliness.]
THIS IS NOT HOME.
This is not home! from o'er the stormy sea
Bright birds of passage wing their way to me;
They bear a message from the loved and lost
Who tried the angry waves and safely crossed,
And now in homelike mansions find repose
Where billows never roar nor tempest blows.
As strangers here in foreign lands we roam,
Oh, why should not the exile sigh for home?
A thousand snares beset our thorny way,
And night is round us—why not wish for day?
The storm is high, beneath its wintry wing
The blossom fades—oh, why not wish for Spring?
The waters roll o'er treasures buried deep,
And sacred dust the lonely churchyards keep—
Homes are dissolved and ties are rent in twain,
And things that charm can never charm again,
On every brow we mark the hand of time,
Oh, why not long for the celestial clime?
Wave after wave rolls inward to the land,
Then comes the wail and then the parting hand,
And those for whom we would have freely died
Are borne away upon the ebbing tide;
We weep and mourn, we bid the sea restore,
It mocks our grief—and takes one idol more.