THE CHANGED CROSS.

It was a time of sadness, and my heart, Although it knew and loved the better part, Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, And all the needful discipline of life.

And while I thought on these, as given to

me,

My trial tests of faith and love to be,
It seemed as if I never could be sure
That faithful to the end I should endure.

And thus, no longer trusting to his might
Who says,
"We walk by faith, and not by
sight,"

Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,
The thought arose, My cross I cannot bear:

Far heavier its weight must surely be
Than those of others which I daily see.
Oh! if I might another burden choose,
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose.

A solemn silence reigned on all around,
Elen Nature's voices uttered not a sound;
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell.

A moment's pause-and then a heavenly light Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight;

Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, And angels' music thrilled the balmy air.

Then, speaking thus, he led me far above,
And there, beneath a canopy of love,
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen,
Larger and smaller than my own had been.
And one there was, most beauteous to behold,
A little one, with jewels set in gold.

"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort

wear,

For it will be an easy one to bear!"
And so the little cross I quickly took;
But, all at once, my frame beneath it shook.
The sparkling jewels fair were they to see,
But far too heavy was their weight for me.
"This may not be," I cried, and looked again,
To see if there was any here could ease my
pain;

But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye.

But oh! how different did it seem to be
Now I had learned its preciousness to see!
No longer could I unbelieving say,
"Perhaps another is a better way."

Ah no! henceforth my own desire shall be, That he who knows me best should choose

for me;

And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, I'll trust it's best, because he knows the end.

MRS. CHARLES HOBART.

THE PASTOR'S REVERIE.

The REV. WASHington GladdEN was born at Pottsgrove, Pa, Feb. 11, 1836, and graduated at Williams College in the class of 1859- He was ordained in Brooklyn, as pastor of the State Street Congregational Church. For some years he was pastor of the church at Morrisania, N. Y., and subsequently at North Adams, Mass. From the last-mentioned charge he was called to an editorial position on the New York Independent, where he showed great ability as a writer upon topics of living interest. He left that position to take the pastoral charge of the North Congregational Church, Springfield, Mass. Mr. Gladden was the first editor of Sunday Afternoon, now Good Company, a successful magazine published at Springfield, in which city he still lives. He is a frequent contributor to the press.

THE pastor sits in his easy-chair,

With the Bible upon his knee.

From gold to purple the clouds in the west
Are changing momently;

The shadows lie in the valleys below,
And hide in the curtain's fold;

And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old."

"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are;

No day that is gone was shadowless,
No night was without its star;

But mingled bitter and sweet hath been

The portion of his cup:

845

Once more the green and the grove resound With the merry children's din;

He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, When Santa Claus stalks in.

Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars
On the distant mountain-side,

Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook
Where the fierce young troutlings hide.

And now he beholds the wedding train
To the altar slowly move,

And the solemn words are said that seal
The sacrament of love.

Anon at the font he meets once more
The tremulous youthful pair,
With a white-robed cherub crowing response
To the consecrating prayer.

By the couch of pain he kneels again;
Again, the thin hand lies

Cold in his palm, while the last far look
Steals into the steadfast eyes;

And now the burden of hearts that break
Lies heavy upon his own

The widow's woe and the orphan's cry
And the desolate mother's moan.

So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, Are the days that are no more,

66

In love hath bound us up.”

Fleet flies his thought over many a field
Of stubble and snow and bloom,

And now it trips through a festival,
And now it halts at a tomb;
Young faces smile in his reverie,

Of those that are young no more, And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-off shore.

He thinks of the day when first, with fear
And faltering lips, he stood

To speak in the sacred place the Word
To the waiting multitude;

He walks again to the house of God
With the voice of joy and praise,

With many whose feet long time have pressed
Heaven's safe and blessed ways.

He enters again the homes of toil,
And joins in the homely chat;

He stands in the shop of the artisan ;
He sits, where the Master sat,

At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast.
But who to-day are the poor,

And who are the rich? Ask him who keeps The treasures that ever endure.

"Pone luctum, Magdalena!"

EDWARD ABIEL WASHBURN, a prominent and highly cultivated clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church, was born in Boston, April 16, 1819, and graduated at Harvard College in 1838. He is now rector of Calvary Church, in New York City. The following translation was prepared for Dr. Schaff's "Christ in Song," 1868.

STILL thy sorrow, Magdalena!

Wipe the tear-drops from thine eyes:
Not at Simon's board thou kneelest,
Pouring thy repentant sighs:
All with thy glad heart rejoices;
All things sing, with happy voices,
Hallelujah!

Laugh with rapture, Magdalena!
Be thy drooping forehead bright:
Banished now is every anguish,

Breaks anew thy morning light:
Christ from death the world hath freed;
He is risen, is risen indeed:
Hallelujah!

Joy! exult, O Magdalena!

He hath burst the rocky prison;
Ended are the days of darkness:
Conqueror hath he arisen.
Mourn no more the Christ departed;
Run to welcome him, glad-hearted;
Hallelujah!

Lift thine eyes, O Magdalena!
See! thy living Master stands;
See his face, as ever, smiling;

See those wounds upon his hands,
On his feet, his sacred side,
Gems that deck the glorified:
Hallelujah!

More than our feeble hearts can ever pine

For holiness,

That Father, in his tenderness divine, Yearneth to bless.

JOY AFTER SORROW.

COMETH sunshine after rain,
After mourning joy again,
After heavy, bitter grief
Dawneth surely sweet relief;

And my soul, who from her height
Sank to realms of woe and night,
Wingeth now to heaven her flight.

He, whom this world dares not face,
Hath refreshed me with his grace,
And his mighty hand unbound
Chains of hell about me wound;
Quicker, stronger, leaps my blood,
Since his mercy, like a flood,
Poured o'er all my heart for good.

Bitter anguish have I borne,
Keen regret my heart hath torn,
Sorrow dimmed my weeping eyes,
Satan blinded me with lies;
Yet at last am I set free,
Help, protection, love, to me
Once more true companions be.

Ne'er was left a helpless prey,
Ne'er with shame was turned away,
He who gave himself to God,
And on him had cast a load.

Who in God his hope hath placed
Shall not life in pain outwaste,
Fullest joy he yet shall taste.

Though to-day may not fulfil
All thy hopes, have patience still;
For perchance to-morrow's sun
Sees thy happier days begun.

As God willeth march the hours,
Bringing joy at last in showers,
And whate'er we asked is ours.

847

When my heart was vexed with care,
Filled with fears, wellnigh despair;
When with watching many a night
On me fell pale sickness' blight ;
When my courage failed me fast,
Camest thou, my God, at last,
And my woes were quickly past.

Now as long as here I roam,
On this earth have house and home,
Shall this wondrous gleam from thee
Shine through all my memory.

To my God I yet will cling,
All my life the praises sing

That from thankful hearts outspring.

Every sorrow, every smart,
That the eternal Father's heart
Hath appointed me of yore,
Or hath yet for me in store,
As my life flows on I'll take
Calmly, gladly for his sake,
No more faithless murmurs make.

I will meet distress and pain,

I will greet e'en death's dark reign,
I will lay me in the grave,
With a heart still glad and brave.
Whom the Strongest doth defend,
Whom the Highest counts his friend,
Cannot perish in the end.

PAUL GERHARDT, 1659. Translated by
CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.

COUPLETS.

WHEN thou hast thanked thy God for every

blessing sent,

What time will then remain for murmurs or lament?

When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone,

Which must be shaped, or else aside as useless thrown.

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D. D.

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA.

The following lines are a paraphrase of some Arabic verses quoted in "Palfrey's Travels in Arabia." The author is a brother of Arthur Arnold, and second son of Robert Coles Arnold, a magistrate for Sussex, England. He was born June 10, 1832, and was educated at Oxford, where he gained honors as a classical scholar and a writer of poetry. After having published a small volume of poems, he went, in early life, to India, where he resided for seven years, becoming proficient in the language and literature of the country. He was principal of the Government Sanscrit college at Poonah, in the Deccan. Resigning this appointment on account of the ill health of his wife, in 1860, he returned to England, where he published a "History of Lord Dalhousie's Administration," another volume of poems, and a translation of the "Euterpe " of Herodotus. Becoming editorial writer for the London Telegraph, he rose to the post of editor-in-chief. In 1879 he published a remarkable poem, entitled "The Light of Asia," the most noteworthy poetical contribution to English literature made during that year. Mr. Arnold published other volumes in India and England besides those mentioned, "Azan" is the hour of afternoon prayer in Moslem communities. The following text has been verified (in the author's absence from London) by Mr. Edwin Lester Arnold, his son.

HE who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in the light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,

In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.

I am gone before your face,

A moment's time, a little space. When ye come where I have stepped, Ye will wonder why ye wept;

Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.

Weep awhile, if ye are fain, —
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death, for death,

Now I know, is that first breath

Which our souls draw when we enter

Life, which is of all life centre.

CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSHEND, a clergyman of the Church of England, of peculiar views, was born in 1798, and educated at Cambridge. He never preached, but devoted himself to literature and art, and to the elucidation of the mysteries of mesmerism. At his death, which occurred in London, Feb. 25. 1858, he left his manuscripts, containing a record of his religious views, to Mr. Charles Dickens, for publication.

GIVE me thy joy in sorrow, gracious Lord,
And sorrow's self shall like to joy appear!
Although the world should waver in its sphere,
I tremble not, if thou thy peace afford.
But, thou withdrawn, I am but as a chord
That vibrates to the pulse of hope and fear;
Nor rest I more than harps which to the air
Must answer when we place their tuneful
board