Nearer the great white throne ;
Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down,
Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown!

But the waves of that silent sea
Roll dark before my sight,
That brightly the other side
Break on a shore of light.

0, if my mortal feet

Have almost gain'd the brink;

If it be I am nearer home

Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death,

That her feet are firmly set

On the Rock of a living faith!

MICHAEL AND HIS SON.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

NEAR the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had design'd

To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard

The tidings of his melancholy loss,

For this same purpose he had gather'd up

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd,
And thus the old man spake to him: "My son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me with full heart

I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part

Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good

When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of. After thou
First camest into the world, as oft befalls
To new-born infants, - thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding bade, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month follow'd month,
And in the open fields my life was pass'd,
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud. The old man grasp'd his hand,
And said, "Nay, do not take it so, I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
Even to the utmost I have been to thee

A kind and a good father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself

Received at others' hand; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
As all their forefathers had done; and, when
At length their time was come, they were not loth

To give their bodies to the family mould.

I wish'd that thou shouldst live the life they lived: But 'tis a long time to look back, my son,

And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burden'd when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more

Than half of my inheritance was mine.

I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. It looks as if it never could endure

Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

That thou shouldst go."

At this the old man paused;

Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:

"This was a work for us; and now, my son,

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone,

Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
Nay, boy, be of good hope; we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four

I still am strong and hale ;— do thou thy part;
I will do mine. I will begin again

With many tasks that were resign'd to thee:
Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
Will I without thee go again, and do

All works which I was wont to do alone,

Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so,

yes

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

yes;

To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me

Only by links of love: when thou art gone,

What will be left to us? But I forget

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
When thou art gone away, should evil men

Be thy companions, think of me, my son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well!
When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant
"Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,

And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, And, as his father had requested,

Laid the first stone of the Sheep-fold.

At the sight

The old man's grief broke from him; to his heart
He press'd his son, he kissèd him and wept;
And to the house together they return'd.

Hush'd was that house in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell: with morrow's dawn the boy
Began his journey, and when he had reach'd
The public way, he put on a bold face;

And all the neighbours, as he pass'd their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That follow'd him till he was out of sight.

LEONARD AND MARGARET.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

LEONARD was not more than eight-and-twenty when he obtained a living, a few miles from Doncaster. He took his bride with him to the vicarage. The house was as humble as the benefice, which was worth less than fifty pounds a-year; but it was soon made the neatest cottage in the country round, and upon a hap

pier dwelling the Sun never shone. A few acres of good glebe were attached to it; and the garden was large enough to afford healthful and pleasureable employment to the owners. The course of true love never ran more smoothly; but its course was short. Little more than five years from the time of their marriage had elapsed, before a head-stone in the adjacent churchyard told where the remains of Margaret Bacon had been deposited in the thirtieth year of her age.

When the stupor and the agony of that bereavement had passed away, the very intensity of Leonard's affection became a source of consolation. Margaret had been to him purely an ideal object during the years of his youth death had again rendered her such. Imagination had beautified and idolized her then; faith sanctified and glorified her now. She had been to him all that he had fancied, all that he had hoped, all that he had desired. She would again be so in Heaven. And this second union nothing could impede, nothing could interrupt, nothing could dissolve. He had only to keep himself worthy of it by cherishing her memory, hallowing his heart to it while he performed a parent's duty to their child; and, so doing, to await his own summons, which must one day come, which was every day brought nearer, and which any day might bring.

The same feeling which from his childhood had refined Leonard's heart, keeping it pure and undefiled, had also corroborated the natural strength of his character, and made him firm of purpose. It was a saying of Bishop Andrewes that "good husbandry is good divinity"; "the truth whereof," says Fuller, "no wise man will deny." Frugality he had always practised as a needful virtue, and found that in an especial manner it brings with it its own reward. He now resolved