And for healing the nations, the tree of life too.
There's no need of a candle or sun there, for night
Is excluded forever--the Lord God is their light.
But here we will stop, for no tongue can declare,
No heart may conceive what the Saints enjoy there.
And these joys may be ours--oh! how blissful the thought,
Ours without money, without price may be bought.
For us they've been purchased by the Son of God,
At an infinite price--_his own precious blood_.
They wait our acceptance, may be ours if we choose,
'Tis _life_ to accept them,--'tis _death_ to refuse.

Weston, May 15, 1862.




AN ACROSTIC.


Ah! what is this life? It's a dream, is the reply;
Like a dream that's soon ended, so life passes by.
Pursue the thought further, still there's likeness in each,
How constant our aim is at what we can't reach.
E'en so in a dream, we've some object in view
Unceasingly aimed at, but the thing we pursue
Still eludes our fond grasp, and yet lures us on too.

How analagous this to our waking day hours,
Unwearied our efforts, we tax all our powers;