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, As The path leads onward through a stile, Arrayed in womanhood's first blushing grace, With proffered help, obsequious courtiers stand; But past them all reaches a little hand, In after years, among the young and gay, Now thickening ills around him gather fast, 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. But see! at length the clouds above him part, As comes a storm-tost mariner to land, He comes, his toils and troubles flown; Before the world is stretched a little hand, That fondly, firmly clasps his own. I THE TOUCH OF MEMORY. NEVER watch the evening star Beam forth upon the dying day, I never scent the new-mown hay, I never hear the church-bell chimes Thus many chords of love, that lie To memory's tender touch reply, And, at that touch awakening fast, As some lone harp, that long hath lain |