think them a burden and wish to be free,
From every encumbrance that can serve us no more.

We are drifting away with our hopes and our fears,
To an ocean of life unknown to us now;
We see a bright vision--though veiled by our tears,
It appears like refulgence to lighten the brow.

Too slowly our bark seems to drift toward the prize,
We in ecstasy wish it to speed faster on;
But while we are wishing, a mist dims our eyes,
And lo! that bright vision has vanished and gone.

A gloom of thick darkness now spreads like a pall,
The winds of the tempest arise in their force,
And amid their wild shriekings for succor we call
On Him who reigns o'er us, to mark out our course.

We plead for protection from ruin and pain,
Repiningly think of our anchor and helm,
And could we secure those lost prizes again,
No tempest could shake us, no wave could o'erwhelm.

But swiftly we're drifting, we cannot tell where,
The current moves onward regardless of gloom,
We raise our weak voices and utter a prayer
That God in His mercy is drifting us home.

* * * * *

The silver stream by the farmhouse door
Flows on and on forever,
But the feet that trod its oaken floor
Have crossed the mystic river,
And no wind kissed by a vernal sun
Can return them e'er again;
Their earthly pilgrimage is done,
They dwell in a new domain.

KINDRED SPIRITS.

Oh, give me some heart of a kindred spirit
That smiles when I smile, or that weeps when I weep,
Whose solace is greater by far to inherit
Than the wealth of the mines or the gems of the deep.

Some heart that will echo response to my feeling,
That thrills with delight when I speak of my joy;
That sorrows with sorrow too deep for concealing,
When cankering griefs make my own heart's alloy.

Some heart that appreciates each little kindness,
That knows all my feelings, tho' oft unexpressed,
That sees not my faults with a passionate blindness,
But clings to my soul when 'tis sorely distressed.

Some heart whose affection can never be blighted,
That beats all in concert with that of my own,
That revels in pleasures with which I'm delighted,
And grieves at the sorrows which cause me to moan.

Some heart that can never be swerved from its mooring,
Though tempests