D

DREAMS.

REAMS, childhood's dreams! Happy, and pure, and bright, As the sun's first glittering beams When they burst upon the sight! And the freshness of morn may depart In the glare of the growing day ;

But the joy that it gave to the childish heart Nothing can take away.

Dreams, youthful dreams!

Beautiful, fair, and sweet,

As the dew of the morning seems

When it sparkles under our feet!

And the morning dew may be dispersed
By the sun's increasing glow;

But the tender touch that it gave at first
Will linger long below.

Dreams, manhood's dreams!

Hopeful, and deep, and strong, As the chief of a thousand streams, When it rolls in its might along!

But the river as onward it flows,

Comes at last to the wide-spread sea;

And the dreams of man and time must close In the dawn of eternity.

Dreams, age's dreams!

Peaceful, and calm, and clear, As the star of the evening gleams, When the shades of the night are near! But the light of the evening star

Cheers most as it sinks in the west; And the dreams of age are sweeter far When they speak to the soul of rest.

R

REST.

EST for the labourer, rest!

When the daylight slowly dies,

When the shadows creep, and welcome sleep

Comes to the weary eyes.

Rest for the watcher, rest!

When the longed-for dawning breaks, When the gloom of night is put to flight, As the day's great splendour wakes.

Rest for the mariner, rest!

Beyond the angry tide,

The anchor's cast in the port at last,

His native shore beside.

Rest for the soldier, rest!

When the storms of battle cease, When the din of war is heard no more,

And the people dwell in peace.

Rest for the traveller, rest!

The day's long journey done,

When, after the tramp, they pitch the camp

Beneath the setting sun.

Rest for the mourner, rest!

When the first wild grief subsides, As from the heart dark doubts depart, And the peace of God abides.

Rest for the wanderer, rest!

No more afar to roam,

When welcomed back from his wayward track

Into his long-lost home.

Rest for the Christian, rest!

When the struggle of life is o'er,

When the race is run, and the crown is won,

Rest! and for evermore.

THE LITTLE HAND.

A LOVE STORY.

S strolling in a quiet country place,

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a

The path leads onward through a stile, Arrayed in womanhood's first blushing grace, Admired by all, she stops awhile:

With proffered help, obsequious courtiers stand;
Distrustful he draws back alone

But past them all reaches a little hand,
That fondly, firmly clasps his own.

In after years, among the young and gay,
He moves, the favourite of all ;
Bright eyes beam tenderly upon his way,
And pleasant voices on him call:
But, 'mid the fair and fascinating band,
And the allurements round him thrown,
He sees, more welcome still, a little hand,
That fondly, firmly clasps his own.

Now thickening ills around him gather fast,
And friends forsake and foes oppress,

While, every joy by sorrow overcast,

He wanders on in loneliness :

Yet, though of care his forehead bears the brand,
Though dark and drear his path has grown,
He feels, through all his woe, a little hand,
That fondly, firmly clasps his own.