“What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what then we spurn'd,
For then the carpet will be turn'd."

"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick :


more I'll

That this world is so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right."



MAN, a gregarious creature, loves to fly
Where he the trackings of the herd can spy;
Still to be one with many he desires,

Although it leads him through the the thorns and briars.

A few! but few there are, who in the mind

Perpetual source of consolation find;

The weaker many to the world will come,
For comforts seldom to be found from home.

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Early in life, when we can laugh aloud,

There's something pleasant in a social crowd,
Who laugh with us- but will such joy remain,
When we lie struggling on the bed of pain?
When our physician tells us, with a sigh,
No more on hope and science to rely,

Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath
We pray for hope divine - the staff of death;

This is a scene which few companions grace,

And where the heart's first favourites yield their


Here all the aid of man to man must end, Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend; The tenderest love must here its tie resign, And give th' aspiring heart to love divine.

Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run, Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone. 1



COME, honey-bee, with thy busy hum,
To the fragrant tuft of the wild thyme come,
And sip the sweet dew from the cowslip's head,
From the lily's bell and the violet's bed.
Come, honey-bee,

There is spread for thee

A rich repast in wood and field,
And a thousand flowers

Within our bowers

To thee their nectar'd essence yield.

Come, honey-bee, to our woodlands come,
There's a lesson for us in thy busy hum;
Thou hast treasure in store in the hawthorn's

In the golden broom, and the purple heath;

1 We die alone. If we have not lived in solitary communion with God, we shall start at finding ourselves in the solemn silence of death, about to launch forward where no friends, no ordinances, can accompany us. Rev. H. Martyn.

And flowers less fair

That scent not the air

Like pleasant friends, drop balm for thee
And thou winrest spoil

By thy daily toil,

Thou patient, and thrifty, and diligent bee.

We may learn from the bee the wise man's lore,
"The hand of the diligent gathereth store." 1
He plies in his calling from morn till night,
Nor tires of his labour, nor flags in his flight;
From numberless blossoms of every hue,
He gathers the nectar and sips the dew.
Then homeward he speeds

O'er the fragrant meads,

And he hums as he goes his thankful lay-
Let our thanks too arise

For our daily supplies,

As homeward and heavenward we haste on

our way.



AND the muffled drum roll'd on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measur'd tread,
As silent and slow they follow'd the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.

1 Proverbs, x. 4.

That soldier had stood in the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain:

But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by,
And he came to his native land to die.
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!

'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!

But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own lov'd shore;
To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.
The bugles ceas'd their wailing sound

As the coffin was lower'd into the ground;
A volley was fir'd, a blessing said,

One moment's pause - and they left the dead!
I saw a poor and an aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan:

He knelt him down on the new-rais'd mound,
His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground,
He rais'd his head, his tears were done, -
The father had pray'd o'er his only son!



MARK, IV. 14.

Sow in the morn thy seed,

At eve hold not thine hand;

To doubt and fear give thou no heed,

Broad-cast it o'er the land.

Beside all waters sow,

The highway furrows stock,

Drop it where thorns and thistles grow,
Scatter it on the rock.


The good, the fruitful ground,
Expect not here nor there:
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found,
Go forth, then, everywhere.

Thou know'st not which may thrive,
The late or early sown;

Grace keeps the precious germs alive,
When and wherever strown.

And duly shall appear,

In verdure, beauty, strength;
The tender blade, the stalk, the ear,
And the full corn at length.

Thou canst not toil in vain ;
Cold, heat, and moist, and dry,
Shall foster and mature the grain,
For garner in the sky.

Thence, when the glorious end,
The day of God is come,

The angel-reapers shall descend,

And Heaven cry - "Harvest home!"

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FAREWELL, Sweet babe! whilst we thy loss deplore,
Thy spirit, freed from its terrestrial load,

Shall join its kindred cherubs in the choir
Who sing unceasing round the throne of God.

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