chilled by rude winds. We know that we are doomed to find thorns in
roses, and to suffer from "thorns in the flesh." We know that there
are for us hours when the sunshine without must be darkened by shadows
within; when we must be pierced by trials; when we must be humbled by
afflictions. Yet, so we but duly know our mental possibilities, how
much there is to animate us and to make us hopeful. Well may we go our
way, with a high ambition and with good cheer. Well may we prize, as a
stage of action, this old stone-ribbed earth, whereon we can behold the
beauty of emerald meadows and of blossoming plants, and can hear the
songs of russet-bosomed robins and the prattle of children, the voice
of the vernal breeze, and the sound of the summer rain. Oh, who that
ever muses on the soul's heirship to the divine, can wish he had never
been born? I am grateful for my existence. I rejoice that I have
place amid the bright-robed mysteries which surround me. I glory in
the shifting scenery of the seasons. No flaw do I find in the sun, the
moon, or the stars. No prayer have I to make that the grass which
grows at my feet may be fairer than it is, or that the mornings and
evenings may be more attractive. Let me know as I may, and feel as I
should, the truth that I am endlessly improvable, and I am assured that
the soul of the universe will somehow sweeten every bitter allotment
that falls to me, will "charm my pained steps over the burning marl"
which belongs to the course of probationary experience, and will assist
me joyfully to approximate the greatness of His own infinite and
tranquil character. It is bliss to feel that the soul is an
ever-enduring entity. Unlike the clouds and the snow-heaps, the fluids
and the liquids, the rocks and the metals--unlike all the generations
of living organisms--it neither wastes away nor loses its
distinctiveness. Nay, it outlasts every transmuting process, and, as a
self-identifying self, is endlessly living.