DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

TOO LATE.

'Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu.'

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; -
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O to call back the days that are not!

My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you:

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.24

'PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow.' Praise Him who sendeth joy and woe.

The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, —

O praise Him, all that dies, and lives.

He opens and He shuts his hand,
But why, we cannot understand:
Pours and dries up His mercies' flood,
And yet is still All-perfect Good.

We fathom not the mighty plan,
The mystery of God and man;
We women, when afflictions come,
We only suffer and are dumb.

And when, the tempest passing by,

He gleams out, sun-like, through our sky,
We look up, and through black clouds riven,
We recognize the smile of Heaven.

Ours is no wisdom of the wise,
We have no deep philosophies:
Childlike we take both kiss and rod,
For he who loveth knoweth God.

NOW AND AFTERWARDS.

'Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past.'

'Two hands upon the breast,

RUSSIAN PROVERB.

And labor's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest

The race is won;

Two eyes with coin-weights shut,

And all tears cease;

Two lips where grief is mute,
Anger at peace;’-

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot:
God in his kindness answereth not.

'Two hands to work addrest

Aye for his praise;

Two feet that never rest

Walking his ways;

Two eyes that look above
Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears; '

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!

BURIED to-day;

BURIED TO-DAY.

February 23, 1858.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south wind comes a shout

Of village boys and girls at play

In the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away;

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,

From eyes that drew half their light from him,

And put low, low, underneath the clay,

In his spring-on this spring day.

Passes away

All the pride of boy-life begun,

All the hope of life yet to run;

Who dares to question when One saith 'Nay'?
Murmur not-only pray.

Enters to-day

Another body in church-yard sod,

Another soul on the life in God. HIS Christ was buried- and lives alway: Trust Him, and go your way.

PHILIP MY KING.

'Who bears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty.'

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip my king,

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies
Of babyhood's royal dignities:

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With love's invisible sceptre laden;

I am thine Esther to command

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Philip my king.

O the day when thou goest a wooing,
Philip my king!

When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth - up to thy brow,
Philip my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers:

My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years;
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip my king,

A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip my king,

Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

Thorny and cruel and cold and gray :
Rebels within thee and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious Martyr, yet monarch: till angels shout,

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious,

'Philip, the king!'