THE CALLING OF THE CHILDREN.

*

"He shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.” -Isaiah xl. II.

"Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God."-Mark x. 14.

T is the voice of Him

IT

Who bids the children come
To joys that never shall grow dim,
Within His happy home.

They hear that blessed voice;
It soothes their wild alarms :
Their loving little hearts rejoice;
They fly into His arms.

He folds them to His breast;
They nestle fondly there,

And in His tender keeping rest,

For ever young and fair,—

Safe from the blight of sin,
From pain, and grief, and hate,

Where death can never enter in

To change their blest estate.

* Written upon some little children who died of a fever.

Not here, not here below,

Are they whose loss ye weep: A morn no mortal eyes can know Has roused them from their sleep.

Not in the ground they lie, Not in the churchyard rest; But in the mansions of the sky, Upon the Saviour's breast.

I

A VISION OF JOY.

"And there shall be no more curse."-Revelation xxii. 3.

HAD a vision, fair without a stain,

Of that sweet rest the ransomed people gain, Where never enters any grief or pain.

I watched, when on that region's threshold bright, Upon the eyes hidden till then in night,

In beams of beauty burst the living light.

Then to the deaf their loving Master spoke :
Their slumb'ring sense to heed that summons woke;
And on their ears the angels' anthem broke.

The thankful dumb regained their loosened tongue,
And their Redeemer's praise enraptured sung,
Till Heaven's walls with new-found voices rung.

While, rising joyfully their Lord to meet,
I saw the lame leap lightly on their feet,
And hasten on upon the golden street.

Not one who entered that celestial door
With him one trace of earth's pollution bore
To that sweet rest which lasts for evermore.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

TH

HERE is a little village church, With walls of time-worn stone, Crowned by a square, embattled tower, With ivy over-grown;

Half hidden by a grove of trees,
That year by year have shed

Their leaves upon the humble mounds
That lie above the dead.

Upon a pleasant hill it stands,

And far around are seen

Its grey old walls and green old tower,
Peeping the trees between.

And from that church, o'er distant fields,
Oft on the breeze there swells
The music of that blessed sound,
The sound of Sabbath bells.

The lowly dwellings of the poor
Around it gather near;

And, in a cluster at its foot,

Their straw-thatched roofs appear.

From early youth to hoary age,

The villagers have trod

Yon path that upward leads the way
Into the house of God;

And there, in one unending train,
From immemorial days,

Have met to join the heartfelt prayer
And heartfelt song of praise.

And, while within its ancient walls
The sons their Sabbaths keep,
Their fathers underneath its shade
Lie in their last long sleep.

Oh! there a soothing quiet reigns
I never find elsewhere :

It smiles amid the mellowed light,
And floats upon the air.

No high-born folk in rich attire
Within it take their seat :

But none the less sincere are they
Who there to worship meet.

The preacher's language might to some
Rough and untutored seem;
For simple are his earnest words,

As simple as his theme:

But 'tis the sweet simplicity

Of truth's unstudied speech,

That enters where no honied words
Of eloquence could reach.

No wondrous anthems there are heard,
Nor lofty strains of art;

But hymns with holy music fraught,
The music of the heart.