But, O! how dark, how drear, how lone
Would seem the brightest world of bliss,
If, wandering through each radiant one,
We fail'd to find the loved of this!
If there no more the ties should twine,
Which death's cold hand alone can sever,
Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,
More hateful, as they shine for ever.

It cannot be! each hope and fear

That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears: The pure in heart shall meet again!"

WILLIAM LEggett.

The Poor Man's Day.

BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
On other days the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's
cold

And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree:
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently

With covered face, and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

JAMES GRAHAME.

Turning to God.

F, gracious God, in life's

green, ardent year,

IF

A thousand times thy patient love I tried; With reckless heart, with conscience hard and

sere,

Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied;

O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear Around my brow, and youth's bright promise

hide,

Grant me with reverential awe to hear

Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide!

Blot from my book of life its early stain!
Since days misspent will never more return,
My future path do thou in mercy trace;
So cause my soul with pious zeal to burn,
That all the trust, which in thy name I place,
Frail as I am, may not prove wholly vain!

PIETRO BEMBO, Trans. ANON.

THY

Thy Will be Done!

'HY will be done! O heavenly King, I bow my head to thy decree; Albeit my soul not yet may wing

Its upward flight, great God, to thee!

Though I must still on earth abide,
To toil, and groan, and suffer here,
To seek for peace on sorrow's tide,
And meet the world's unfeeling jeer.

When heaven seemed dawning on my view
And I rejoiced my race was run,
Thy righteous hand the bliss withdrew;
And still I say, "Thy will be done!"

And though the world can never more
A world of sunshine be to me,
Though all my fairy dreams are o'er,

And Care pursues where'er I flee;

Though friends I loved the dearest-best,
Were scattered by the storm away,
And scarce a hand I warmly pressed
As fondly presses mine to-day :

Yet must I live-must live for those
Who mourn the shadow on my brow,
Who feel my hand can soothe their woes,
Whose faithful hearts I gladden now.

Yes, I will live-live to fulfil

The noble mission scarce begun,

And pressed with grief to murmur still,

All Wise! All Just! "Thy will be done!"

ANNA CORA MOWATT.

The Hours are Viewless Angels.

'HE hours are viewless angels,

THE

That still go gliding by,

And bear each minute's record up
TO HIM who sits on high;
And we, who walk among them,

As one by one departs,

See not that they are hovering
For ever round our hearts.

Like summer-bees, that hover
Around the idle flowers,

They gather every act and thought,
Those viewless angel-hours;

The poison or the nectar

The heart's deep flower-cups yield,
A sample still they gather swift
And leave us in the field.

And some flit by on pinions
Of joyous gold and blue,

And some flag on with drooping wings

Of sorrow's darker hue; But still they steal the record, And bear it far away;

Their mission-flight by day or night,

No magic power can stay.

And as we spend each minute

That God to us hath given,

The deeds are known before His throne,
The tale is told in heaven.
These bee-like hours we see not,
Nor hear their noiseless wings;
We only feel, too oft, when flown,
That they have left their stings.

So teach me, Heavenly Father,
To meet each flying hour,
That as they go they may not show
My heart a poison flower!

So, when death brings its shadows,
The hours that linger last

Shall bear my hopes on angel-wings,
Unfetter'd by the past.

C. P. CRANCH.