day, and the
vault-like chilliness one feels when entering a cypress swamp, is far
from cheering; and I don't know any position so likely to give one the
horrors as being lost in one, or where one could so well realise what
a desolate loneliness is. The wasps, whose nests like great gourds
hang from the trees about the level of one's face; the mosquitoes in
millions; the little black flies, and venomous snakes, all add their
'little possible' to render a tramp through a cypress swamp
agreeable.--_Sullivan's Rambles_.

THE BETTER THOUGHT.

The Better Thought! how oft in days
When youthful passion fired my breast,
And drove me into devious ways,
Didst thou my wandering steps arrest,
And, whispering gently in mine ear
Thine angel-message, fraught with love,
Check for the time my mad career,
And melt the heart naught else could move!

Thine was no stern and harsh rebuke;
No 'friend's advice,' so true, so cold;
No message wise, such as in book,
Or by the teacher oft is told,
Which, like the pointless arrow, falls,
And rings perhaps with hollow sound,
But ne'er the wanderer recalls,
And ne'er inflicts the healing wound.

Thy voice was gentle, winning, mild;
Thy words told thou wert from above,
Like those with which the wayward child
Is wooed by a fond mother's love;
Or like a strain of music stealing
Across the calm and moonlit seas,
Which moves the heart of sternest feeling,
And wakes its deeper harmonies.

Sweet was thy presence, welcomed guest;
And I, responsive to thy call,
Arose, and felt within my breast
A power that made the fetters fall
From off my long enthralled soul,
And woke, as with a magic spell,
Griefs which yet owned the soft control
Of hopes that all might still be well.

But ah, thou wast an injured guest!
How soon departed, soon forgot,
Were all the hopes of coming rest
That clustered round the Better Thought--
The tender griefs, the firm resolves,
The yearnings after better days,
Like transient sunlight which dissolves,
And leaves no traces of its rays!

Yet I despair not--through the night
That long has reigned with tyrant sway,
E'en now I see the opening light,
The harbinger of coming day;
To Heaven I now direct my prayer--
O God of love, forsake me not!
Grant that my waywardness may ne'er
Quench the returning Better Thought!

GARVALD. J. F.