wonderfully. So it is that one is encouraged to go on writing as long as
the world has anything that interests him, for he never knows how many of
his fellow-beings he may please or profit, and in how many places his
name will be spoken as that of a friend.

In the mood suggested by my story I have ventured on the poem that
follows. Most people love this world more than they are willing to
confess, and it is hard to conceive ourselves weaned from it so as to
feel no emotion at the thought of its most sacred recollections, even
after a sojourn of years, as we should count the lapse of earthly
time,--in the realm where, sooner or later, all tears shall be wiped
away. I hope, therefore, the title of my lines will not frighten those
who are little accustomed to think of men and women as human beings in
any state but the present.

HOMESICK IN HEAVEN.

THE DIVINE VOICE.

Go seek thine earth-born sisters,--thus the Voice
That all obey,--the sad and silent three;
These only, while the hosts of heaven rejoice,
Smile never: ask them what their sorrows be:

And when the secret of their griefs they tell,
Look on them with thy mild, half-human eyes;
Say what thou wast on earth; thou knowest well;
So shall they cease from unavailing sighs.

THE ANGEL.