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,
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.

But see! at length the clouds above him part,
The light of heaven dawns once more;
The ills that hung so heavy on his heart
Forgotten seem as soon as o'er :

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,
But what my heart is carried far
To happy scenes now passed away.

I never scent the new-mown hay,
When evening dews upon it fall,
But many a sweet though distant day
My mind responsive will recall.

I never hear the church-bell chimes
Peal out upon the Sabbath air,
But thoughts arise of by-gone times,
And all the joys that flourished there.

Thus many chords of love, that lie
All silent in those hearts of ours,

To memory's tender touch reply,
Regaining all their former pow'rs.

And, at that touch awakening fast,
Though long forgotten and unheard,
The thoughts and feelings of the past
To life and speech once more are stirred.

As some lone harp, that long hath lain
To song untuned, to music still,
When roused by human hands again,
Feels all its inmost spirit thrill:

Neglected and untouched no more,

No more stern silence round it clings; Its voice sounds tuneful as of yore,

And music swells its trembling strings.