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LUTHER AND THE BIRD.

Where, where are all God's lessons,

His teachings, dark or bright?
Not lost, but only hidden,

Till, in eternal light,

We see, while at His feet we fall,

The reasons and results of all.

F. R. HAVERGAL.

LUTHER AND THE BIRD.

THE sun was setting after a day
Gloomy and wet and chill,

And Martin Luther hurried away,

From the garden-spot where the shadows lay,

And the lurid sunset under the gray,

For his heart was darker still.

But out on a branch a bird began,
To carol a little song.

It struck the ear of the moody man,
Sorrowing under an awful ban,

And through his heart its music ran,
And it made him glad and strong.

Then it nestled its head beneath its wing
And quietly went to rest;

IS YOUR LAMP BURNING?

73

And the time was passing afar from Spring,
And the world had many a venomous thing,
And none knew what the night would bring,
With the sun gone out in the west.

But Martin Luther bent his head,

And in his own sweet words

He blessed the Giver of daily bread,
Who conquers the dark of doom and dread;
And he suffered himself to be gently led

By the God of the little birds.

SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.

IS YOUR LAMP BURNING?

A party of young Friends, rambling through "The Glen," at Newport, on a rural excursion, found the following lines, Eighth month 31st, 1869:

SAY, is your lamp burning, my brother?

I pray you look quickly and see;

For if it were burning, then surely

Some beams would fall bright upon me.

Straight, straight is the road, but I falter,
And oft I fall out by the way;
Then lift your lamp higher, my brother,
Lest I should make fatal delay.

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IS YOUR LAMP BURNING?

There are many and many around you

Who follow wherever you go;

If you thought that they walked in the shadow,
Your lamp would burn brighter, I know.

Upon the dark mountains they stumble,

They are bruised on the rocks, and they lie
With their white pleading faces turned upward
To the clouds and the pitiful sky.

There is many a lamp that is lighted,
We behold them anear and afar;
But not many among them, my brother,
Shine steadily on like a star.

I think, were they trimmed night and morning,
They would never burn down nor go out,
Though from the four quarters of heaven
The winds were all blowing about.

If once all the lamps that are lighted
Should steadily blaze in a line,

Wide over the land and the ocean,
What a girdle of glory would shine!

How all the dark places would brighten!
How the mists would roll up and away!
How the earth would laugh out in her gladness
To hail the millenial day!

TO MY NEEDLE.

Say, is your lamp burning, my brother?
I pray you look quickly and see;
For if it were burning, then surely
Some beam would fall bright upon me.

TO MY NEEDLE.

Poets have oft invoked the muse
For themes as mean as their old shoes;

Why then thy praise should I refuse?
My needle!

Thou shining steel, with point so keen,
The time would fail to tell, I ween,

Of all that thou to me hast been,

My needle!

Thy homely use I need not praise,

Thy aid in many thrifty ways

To housewife's care for wintry days,

My needle!

Nor how when shiv'ring want drew near,

And Pity lent a listening ear,

Thy ready aid was ever here,

My needle!

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TO MY NEEDLE.

Welcome at social converse free,
When busiest thou couldst silent be,
And nimble tongues outrivaled thee,

My needle!

A higher office thou mayst claim,
When as a gentle friend thou came
To aid my best, my thoughtful frame,
My needle!

For though I own thou lent thy aid
To phantoms in bright hues arrayed,
We did not mourn to see them fade,

My needle!

And when stern discipline had brought

My air-built castles all to naught,

Thou proved a friend to solemn thought,

My needle!

But ah! thou hast a rival bold,

Who, like some noisy, bustling scold,

Has spoiled the home, for young and old,

My needle!

The loud pretensions she has made,
In tucked and ruffled skirt arrayed,
Have cast thee quite into the shade,
My needle!