The Echo. I STOOD on the bank of a swift-flowing river, past; It seemed to my fancy for ever repeating, That the dearest enjoyments of life could not last. "Oh tell me," I said, " rapid stream of the valley, That bears in thy course the blue waters away, Can the joys of life's morning awake but to vanish? Can the feelings of love be all doomed to decay?" An Echo repeated, "All doomed to decay!" "Flow on in thy course, rapid stream of the valley; Since the pleasures of life we so quickly resign, My heart shall rejoice in the wild scenes of Nature, And friendship's delights, while they yet may be mine. Must all the sweet charms of mortality perish? And friendship's endearments, ah! will they not stay? 1 The simple enchantments of soft-blooming Nature, And the pleasures of mind,-must they too fade away?" And Echo slow answered, "They too fade away!" "Then where" I exclaimed, "is there hope for the mourner, A balm for his sorrow, a smile for his grief? If beautiful scenes like the present shall vanish, Where, where shall we seek for a certain relief?" "Oh! fly" said my soul, "to the feet of thy Saviour! Believe in his mercy; for pardon now pray. In Him there is fulness of joy and salvation; Thy gladness shall live, and shall never decay." And Echo said sweetly, "Shall never decay!” Nature's Cempte. BY ANNA L. SNELLING. An Indian warrior being urged to enter the splendid Catholic Cathedral at St. Louis, and witness the services there, made the following reply, "Sir, this beautiful green earth, and these waving trees are my church, and yonder," pointing to the clear blue sky beyond, "that is my preacher." Он, allure me not to the gilded tower, What are your temples of wood and stone? You tell me, too, of the eloquence rare, 142 NATURE'S TEMPLE. I would listen to Nature's voice alone: How can your image, to which ye pray, Those pictures-ye call them works of art,- When the morning here, in its robes of light, Woods, rocks, and mountains echo the strain; Then the heart is glad-all around us prove NATURE'S TEMPLE. And when thunders roll, and the storm is near, 143 For it tells them, he too is a "God of Wrath ;" Go, kneel at your pictured and golden shrine- Not to an image of wood I bend To a greater Power must my prayer ascend; |