Weak, sinful as I am,

That still small voice forbids me to despond; Faith clings for refuge to the bleeding Lamb, Nor dreads the gloom beyond.

'Tis not then earth's delights From which my spirit feels so loath to part; Nor the dim future's solemn sounds or sights That press so on my heart.

No! 'tis the thought that I —

My lamp so low, my sun so nearly set,

Have lived so useless, so unmissed should die:

'T is this I now regret.

I would not be the wave

That swells and ripples up to yonder shore; That drives impulsive on, the wild wind's slave,

And breaks, and is no more!

I would not be the breeze,

That murmurs by me in its viewless play, Bends the light grass, and flutters in the trees, And sighs and flits away.

No! not like wave or wind

Be my career across the earthly scene;

To come and go, and leave no trace behind To say that I have been.

I want not vulgar fame,

I seek not to survive in brass or stone; Hearts may not kindle when they hear my

name,

Nor tears my value own.

But might I leave behind

Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust
To guide, to cheer, to elevate my kind
When I was in the dust!

Within my narrow bed

Might I not wholly mute or useless be;

But hope that they, who trampled o'er my head,

Drew still some good from me!

Might my poor lyre but give Some simple strain, some spirit-moving lay; Some sparklet of the soul, that still might live When I was passed to clay!

Might verse of mine inspire One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart ; Light in one drooping soul a hallowed fire, Or bind one broken heart!

HENRY DOBBS HOLT was born in New York City, Feb. 20, 1814, and graduated from the Medical Department of the University of the City of New York in 1847. Dr. Holt was engaged in editorial labors at different times from 1835 to 1864, and in the practice of his profession. He is the author of a volume of verses printed for private circulation in 1874.

SINKS the sun and fades the light,
Evening darkens into night,
Deeper shadows gather fast,
And another day is past,
And another record made
Nevermore to change or fade
Till the Book shall be unsealed,
When the judgment is revealed.
Ere I give myself to rest
Let me make this solemn quest:
Have the hours that winged their flight
Since the dawning of the day,
Sped me on my homeward way,
Am I nearer heaven to-night?

Have I since the opening morn
Faithfully my burden borne?

Has my strength on God been stayed?
Have I watched and have I prayed,
Seeking with a steadfast heart
Zealously the better part?

Have I run the Christian race
With a swift and tireless pace?
Have I conquered in the strife
Which besets my hourly life?
Have I kept my armor bright,
Am I nearer heaven to-night?

Has my vision clearer grown
Of the things to faith made known,

SAMUEL CROSSMAN was born in 1624, and died Feb. 4, 1683. He was prebendary of Bristol and a writer of considerable prose. His poetry is not generally of a high order. His piece on Heaven is considered the best he wrote.

My life's a shade, my days
Apace to death decline;
My Lord is life, he'll raise
My dust again, e'en mine.
Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes
My Saviour see.

My peaceful grave shall keep
My bones till that sweet day,
I wake from my long sleep
And leave my bed of clay.
Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes
My Saviour see.

My Lord his angels shall
Their golden trumpets sound,
At whose most welcome call
My grave shall be unbound.
Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes
My Saviour see.

I said sometimes with tears,
"Ah me! I'm loath to die!"
Lord, silence thou these fears:
My life's with thee on high.
Sweet truth to me!

I shall arise,

And with these eyes

My Saviour see.

What means my trembling heart, To be thus shy of death?

ULTIMA VERITAS.

IN the bitter waves of woe,

Beaten and tossed about

By the sullen winds that blow

From the desolate shores of doubt,

When the anchors that faith had cast

1879.

Are dragging in the gale,

I am quietly holding fast

To the things that cannot fail:

I know that right is right;
That it is not good to lie;
That love is better than spite,
And a neighbor than a spy;
I know that passion needs
The leash of a sober mind;
I know that generous deeds
Some sure reward will find;
That the rulers must obey;

That the givers shall increase;
That Duty lights the way

For the beautiful feet of Peace ;-
In the darkest night of the year,
When the stars have all gone out,
That courage is better than fear,
That faith is truer than doubt;

And fierce though the fiends may fight,
And long though the angels hide,
I know that Truth and Right
Have the universe on their side;

And that somewhere, beyond the stars,
Is a Love that is better than fate;
When the night unlocks her bars
I shall see Him, and I will wait.

WASHINGTON GLADDEN

WHO SHALL BE THE LAST GREAT SEER?

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more
bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not
need

Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

27

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his

state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." JOHN MILTON.

THE POET'S CROWN.

MARY E. CHAMBERLAIN, now MRS. M. E. C. WYETH, was born at Salem, Mass., Dec. 1, 1832, but as her parents removed to St. Louis, Mo., in 1833, her life has been identified with that city. Her first volume of poems was issued in 1850, under the name "Ethel Grey," which she had used previously, and continued to use until 1867. Mrs. Wyeth has written largely in prose, one of her stories, entitled "The Victor of Cross Road Mission," having been highly commended on its appearance in the New York Independent. A volume of her stories, collected from the columns of the Christian Weekly, has been published by the American Tract Society, New York. Mrs. Wyeth is a great recluse.

ONCE, echoing down the shores of time
My spirit heard the immortals' chime,
Beneath the silent, priestly palms.

It thrilled my soul like martyrs' psalms :