But, O! how dark, how drear, how lone It cannot be! each hope and fear That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears: The pure in heart shall meet again!" WILLIAM LEggett. The Poor Man's Day. BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day; And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree: With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy With covered face, and upward earnest eye. He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, JAMES GRAHAME. Turning to God. F, gracious God, in life's green, ardent year, IF A thousand times thy patient love I tried; With reckless heart, with conscience hard and sere, Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied; O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear Around my brow, and youth's bright promise hide, Grant me with reverential awe to hear Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide! Blot from my book of life its early stain! PIETRO BEMBO, Trans. ANON. THY Thy Will be Done! 'HY will be done! O heavenly King, I bow my head to thy decree; Albeit my soul not yet may wing Its upward flight, great God, to thee! Though I must still on earth abide, When heaven seemed dawning on my view And though the world can never more And Care pursues where'er I flee; Though friends I loved the dearest-best, Yet must I live-must live for those Yes, I will live-live to fulfil The noble mission scarce begun, And pressed with grief to murmur still, All Wise! All Just! "Thy will be done!" ANNA CORA MOWATT. The Hours are Viewless Angels. 'HE hours are viewless angels, THE That still go gliding by, And bear each minute's record up As one by one departs, See not that they are hovering Like summer-bees, that hover They gather every act and thought, The poison or the nectar The heart's deep flower-cups yield, And some flit by on pinions And some flag on with drooping wings Of sorrow's darker hue; But still they steal the record, And bear it far away; Their mission-flight by day or night, No magic power can stay. And as we spend each minute That God to us hath given, The deeds are known before His throne, So teach me, Heavenly Father, So, when death brings its shadows, Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings, C. P. CRANCH. |