Longing to sleep the sleep of the dead,
Since youth, and health, and love are fled-
Pity our sister!

But the bright sun shines on her and me,
And on mine and hers, as on thine and thee,
And whatever thy lot in life may be,
Whether of low or high degree—

Still she's our sister! always our sister!
Pity her, succour her, pray for our sister!

-Household Words.

THE CURE FOR SORROW.

O CHILD of Sorrow, be it thine to know
That Scripture only is the cure of woe:
That field of promise-how it flings abroad
Its perfume o'er the Christian's thorny road.
The soul, reposing in assured belief,
Feels herself happy amidst all her grief;
Forgets her labour as she toils along,
Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.

CowPER.

THROUGH TRIALS.

HROUGH night to light. And though to

mortal eyes

Creation's face a pall of horror wear,

Good cheer, good cheer! The gloom of midnight flies, There shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair.

Through storm to calm. And though His thunder

car

The rumbling tempest drive through earth and sky, Good cheer, good cheer! The elemental war Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh.

Through frost to spring. And though the biting blast Of Eurus stiffen nature's juicy veins,

Good cheer, good cheer! When winter's wrath is past, Soft murmuring spring breathes sweetly o'er the plains.

Through strife to peace. And though with bristling front,

A thousand frightful depths encompass thee,

Good cheer, good cheer! Brave thou the battle's brunt, For the peace-march and song of victory.

ROSEGARTEN.

REST.

JOOTHE me, kind Father, for this troubled breast
Is weary, and it longs to be at rest.

Thou knowest that the way is long and steep
O'er those bleak mountains, through this valley deep.
I thought this morning that my home was near,
Thought that a few short steps would bring me there,
And bounded forth with joyous heart and hope
O'er the green sward and undulating slope.
Father, the way was longer than I thought,
More difficult, with greater dangers fraught.
Day is far spent, and, though my home is nearer,
And I can see its happy portals clearer,
Yet my strength fails me. Oh! be with me now,
Let the cool dews of heaven refresh my brow;
Let me not faint beneath this sultry sun,
Or stay to rest before my home is won;
Let not the mists of evening, as they rise,
Make it seem dim or distant to my eyes;
But grant that, when the sunset's glory bright
Gushes in streams of liquid golden light,

Rest.

Shedding on valley deep and mountain hoary
Tender reflections of its crimson glory-
Grant, that my Father's home may then appear
In its full beauty, standing out so clear

In the reflection of the setting sun,

That I may hail the sight of heaven won,
And sing with joy to find my journey done.

DOVE ON THE CROSS.

87

THE RILL.

FROM the deep stillness of its mossy head,
Full-fed by seething mists, the lonely rill
Bounds on from stone to stone at its free will,
Murmuring sweet music in its rocky bed;
By all save lonely bird unvisited-

Yet ever with straight course advancing still
Towards the common sea which all streams fill,
As one by an unswerving instinct led.—
Most like the sigh of solitary prayer,

From the hid fountains of some burthened heart
Poured forth in secret, e'en as though there were
None with itself life's mystery to share;—

Yet adding still, by an unconscious art,

To the whole Church's voice its own melodious part.

S. WILBERFORCE.

ON TIME.

LY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace,
And glut thyself with what thy tomb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entombed,

And last of all thy greedy self consumed,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine

About the supreme throne

Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone,

When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then (all this earthly grossness quit,)

Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time!

MILTON.