ove, but never rest,
Yet turbid evermore.

But when they reach the Johnson bend
And the Sni Chartna meet,
The turbid and the sky-blue blend--
The union is complete.

And soon is lost all trace of mud;
Of azure tint the whole;
With heaven's own hue the rolling flood
Has gained the long-sought goal.

So is it with the soul renewed
While on its heaven-bound way,
With grace divine it is embued,
Yet shows the trace of clay.

And though to rest it never halts,
Its progress is so slow;
Alas, it has too many faults,
Nor much of heavenly glow.

But when God's sanctifying grace
Shall meet it from above,
You seek in vain for sinful trace--
It now is full of love.

A new impulse it then receives
Which speeds it on its way;
To it no stain of sin now cleaves--
It seeks its perfect day.

And as the azure stream has found
Its home in brimming lake,
So shall the soul thus heavenward bound
Of God's own joy partake.

THE FROST ON THE WINDOW

Feathery frost on the window-pane,
Who placed you there? "I cannot explain,"
Each little feather at once replied;
"But this I know, I'm the children's pride,
As they think I fell from an angel's wing,
And coming to earth must rich blessings bring.

"I once formed part of a lovely bay;
The sun shone out, and I turned to spray,
And rose aloft on the ambient air,
To the regions high where all is rare;
Then I mingled with my old friends again,
Who were my neighbors in the haunts of men.

"On the blustering wind, I rode along,
Sometimes hard tossed by the tempest strong,
And then at rest, as when in the bay,
Though much enlarged, the wise savants say;
Though I cannot tell you how long my sleep,
With a chill I woke and began to weep.

"And my ample form much smaller grew,
By the cold compressed to a drop of dew;
Then down I fell, swift as bounding deer,
And knew no more till I fell right here;
But how I became so like a feather
Is problem I can unravel never.

"But, oh, how the sun begins to burn!
I think I must to the clouds return.
Farewell, my boy! but you must not fret;
We meet again, as we now have met,
If not as a feather, perhaps a tree,
Or whatever the Wise One may make of me."

"WILT THOU HARASS A DRIVEN LEAF?"

O harass not a driven leaf,
Nor stubble dry in wrath pursue;
A life so brief load not with grief,
Nor with thine arrow pierce me through.

The fragile leaf, by tempest tost,
Is scarcely worth a