For the billows and foam, and the tumults of wrath In the tempests of trial that compassed my path. Beside the still waters my hunger is fed,

And sweeter than manna drops daily my bread;

While of Christ, the great Rock that shadows their brink,

The full-flowing streams of salvation I drink.

Beside the still waters! Ah! why should I know
Rough ways for my feet, and the torrent's wild flow,
When he who still leadeth me morning and night,
Could hold me for aye in the spell of delight?
Beside the still waters, shut in by God's hills,
The exquisite sense of protection that fills
My bosom is born of the perils o'erpast;
As He led me at first, so He leads me at last!
W. C. RICHARDS.
ANSWERED PRAYERS.

PRAYED for riches, and achieved success-
All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!
My cares were greater, and my peace was less
When that wish came to pass.

I prayed for glory; and I heard my name

Sung by sweet children and by hoary men.

But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame!
I was not happy then.

I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire;

Through quivering heart and body and through brain
There swept the flame of its devouring fire;
And there the scars remain.

I prayed for a contented mind. At length
Great light upon my darkened spirit burst;
Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength.
Oh! had that prayer been first!

ELLA WHEeler.

THE FINAL GOAL.

YET we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain ;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall
At last-far off-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night :
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

ALFRED TENNYSON

SAFE TO THE LAND.

KNOW not if the dark or bright
Shall be my lot;

If that wherein my hopes delight,
Be best or not.

a

S other men have creed, so have I mine:

I keep the holy faith in God, in man,

And in the angels ministrant between;

I hold to one true church of all true souls,
Whose churchly seal is neither bread nor wine,
Nor laying-on of hands, nor holy oil,
But only the annointing of God's grace.

I hate all kings and caste of rank of birth,
For all the sons of man are sons of God;
Nor limps a beggar but is nobly born,
Nor wears a slave a yoke, nor czar a crown
That makes him more or less than just a man;

I love my country and her righteous cause,

So dare I not keep silent of her sin;
And after freedom may her bells ring peace!

I love one woman with a holy fire,
Whom I revere as priestess of my house;
I stand with wondering awe before my babes
Till they rebuke me too a nobler life;
I keep a faithful friendship with a friend
Whom loyally I serve before myself;
I lock my lips too close to speak a lie,

I wash my hands too white to touch a bribe :
I owe no man a debt I cannot pay,
Save only of the love men ought to owe;
Withal, each day, before the blessed Heaven,
I open wide the chambers of my soul
And pray the Holy Ghost to enter in.

Thus reads the fair confession of my faith,
So crossed the contradictions of my life,
That now may God forgive the written lie!
Yet still, by help of Him who helpeth men,
I face two worlds, and fear not life nor death.
O Father, lead me by Thy hand! Amen.
THEODORE TILTON.

DANIEL GRAY.

I shall ever win the home in heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,

In the great company of the forgiven

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

I knew him well; in truth, few knew him better;
For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter
He drank the life of his beloved Lord.

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted
On ready words his freight of gratitude,
Nor was he called upon among the gifted,
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.
He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes ;
And I suppose that in his prayers and graces,

I've heard them all at least a thousand times.

I see him now-his form, his face, his motions,
His homespun habit, and his silver hair-
And hear the language of his trite devotions,
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair.

I can remember how the sentence sounded-
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint!”
And how the "conquering and to conquer" rounded
The loftier aspirations of the saint.

He had some notions that did not improve him :
He never kissed his children-so they say ;

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him
Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way.

He had a hearty hatred of oppression,

And righteous words for sin of every kind;

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression
Were linked so closely in his honest mind.
He could see naught but vanity in beauty,
And naught but weakness in a fond caress,
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.

Yet there were love and tenderness within him;
And I am told that when his Charlie died,
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.

And when they came to bury little Charlie,

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair, And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there, Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,

Strictly attendant on the means of grace, Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer;

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way His mighty friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, Would honor him with wealth some golden day.

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit,
Until in death his patient eye grew dim,

And his Redeemer called him to inherit
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.

So, if I ever win a home in heaven

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

PARTED FRIENDS.

RIEND after friend departs,

Who hath not lost a friend? There is no union here of hearts That finds not here an end! Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time

Beyond the reign of death— There surely is some blessed clime Where life is not a breath; Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire!

There is a world above

Where parting is unknown!
A long eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that glorious sphere!

AIN'S furnace-heat within me quivers,
God's breath upon the flame doth blow,
And all my heart within me shivers
And trembles at the fiery glow;
And yet I whisper-“ As God will!"
And in the hottest fire, hold still.

He comes and lays my heart, all heated,
On the hard anvil, minded so
Into His own fair shape to beat it,

With His own hammer, blow on blow;
And yet I whisper-"As God will ! ”
And at His heaviest blows, hold still.

He takes

my softened heart, and beats itThe sparks fly off at every blow: He turns it o'er and o'er, and neats it,

And lets it cool, and makes it glow;
And yet I whisper-"As God will!"
And in the mighty hand, hold still.

Why should I murmur? for the sorrow
Thus only longer lived would be;
Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,
When God has done His work in me.
So I say, trusting-"As God will!”
And trusting to the end, hold still.

He kindles for my profit purely

Affliction's glowing, fiery brand,
And all His heaviest blows are surely
Inflicted by a Master's hand;
So I say, praying, “As God will!"
And hope in Him and suffer still.

Thy luster with a gem might vie,
While trembling in its purple eye."
"Ay, you may well rejoice, 'tis true,"
Replied the radiant drop of dew;
"You will, no doubt, as on you move,

To flocks and herds a blessing prove;
But when the sun ascends on high,
Its beam will draw me to the sky;
And I must own my little power-
I've but refreshed a humble flower."

'Hold!" cried the stream, nor thus repine; For well 't is known, a power divine, Subservient to His will supreme,

Has made the dew-drop and the stream.
Though small thou art-I that allow-
No mark of Heaven's contempt art thou;
Thou hast refreshed a humble flower,
And done according to thy power."

All things that are, both great and small,
One glorious Author formed them all;
This thought may all repinings quell—
Who serves His purpose serves Him well.

MY HOME.

WO little maidens went one day

Into the shady grove to play;

And while with moss and acorn cup,
They built a fairy palace up,
And laughing, crowned their curling hair
With chestnut leaves and flowers fair,
And old man chanced to pass that way,
And sat him down to see their play.

They did not fear the aged man,

But bade him watch their palace fair; Told him of many a childish plan,

And showed the garlands on their hair.
He kissed each merry, laughing child,
And at their pleasant prattle smiled ;
He said, "Sweet girls, where do you dwell-
Where are your homes? I pray you teii !'

One said, "I dwell below the hill,
Near by the water-fall and mill;
Around the stoop the creeper grows,
Near by our house the river flows;
There on its banks I often sit,
And watch the sailing vessels flit
Like birds across the waters blue;
See through those trees-it is in view."'

"My home is in the city, sir,"

The other said with gentle air;

"Our windows look, like great eyes, down

Upon the grim and dusty street;

I do not like the noisy town,

The roll of wheels and tramp of feet;

I like the free, fresh country air,
The trees, the fields, the flowers fair.
But let us know, kind sir, I pray,
About your home-is 't far away?"

The old man bent his silvered head, Then raised his face, and smiling, said: "I have a home of wealth untold,

The streets are paved with shining gold;
The city gates are brilliant pearls,
Did you e'er hear of it, sweet girls?
There is no night in that fair land,
Life, joy, and peace walk hand in hand:
No death, no sorrow, enters there,
No cries are heard of pain or care-
My home is heaven."

B

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

IRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?

"We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er the cities in song renowned;
Silent they lie, with the deserts around,

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."
And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet-hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drop spilt;
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!"

O joyous birds, it hath still been so ;

Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep.
Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

"A change we have found there-and many a change!
Faces and footsteps, and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And the young that were, have a brow of care,
And the place is hushed where the children played;
Naught looks the same, save the nest we made!"

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,

Birds that o'er-sweep it, in power and mirth :
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed;
So may we reach our bright home at last.

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

GIVING AND LIVING.

'OREVER the sun is pouring his gold

On a hundred worlds that beg and borrow; His warmth he squanders on summits cold. His wealth, on the homes of want and sor

row.

To withhold his largess of precious light Is to bury himself in eternal night :

To give is to live.

The flower shines not for itself at all,
Its joy is the joy it freely diffuses;
Of beauty and balm it is prodigal,

And it lives in the life it sweetly loses.
No choice for the rose but glory or doom-
To exhale or smother, to wither or bloom:
To deny is to die.

The seas lend silvery rain to the land,

The land its sapphire streams to the ocean; The heart sends blood to the brain of command,

The brain to the heart its constant motion;

And over and over we yield our breath-
Till the mirror is dry and images death:

To live is to give.

He is dead whose hand is not opened wide
To help the need of sister or brother;
He doubles the worth of his life-long ride
Who gives his fortunate place to another;
Not one, but a thousand lives are his
Who carries the world in his sympathies:
To deny is to die.

Throw gold to the far-dispersing wave,
And your ships sail home with tons of treasure;
Care not for comfort, all hardships brave,

And evening and age shail sup with pleasure;
Fling health to the sunshine, wind, and rain,
And roses shall come to the cheek again :
To give is to live.

NOTHING IS LOST.

OTHING is lost: the drop of dew
That trembles on the leaf or flower,
Is but exhaled to fall anew

In summer's thunder shower;
Perchance to shine within the bow
That fronts the sun at fall of day,
Perchance to sparkle in the flow
Of fountain far away.

So with our words-or harsh, or kind-
Uttered, they are not all forgot;
They leave their influence on the mind,
Pass on, but perish not!

As they are spoken, so they fall
Upon the spirit spoken to-
Scorch it like drops of burning gall,
Or soothe like honey-dew.

So with our deeds-for good or ill

They have their power, scarce understood; Then let us use our better will

To make them rife with good. Like circles on a lake they go,

Ring beyond ring, and never stay.

O that our deeds were fashioned so
That they might bless alway!

THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER.

HE rose from her delicious sleep,

And put away her soft brown hair, And in a tone as low and deep

As love's first whisper, breathed a prayer ;
Her snow-white hands together pressed,
Her blue eyes sheltered in the lid,
The folded linen on her breast
Just swelling with the charms it hid.

And from her long and flowing dress
Escaped a bare and snowy foot,
Whose step upon the earth did press

Like a sweet snow-flake soft and mute;
And then from slumber chaste and warm,
Like a young spirit fresh from heaven,
She bowed that young and matchless form ;
And humbly prayed to be forgiven.

Faults and follies it can show,

Wisdom dearly earning;

But the path once trodden, know,
Hath no more returning.

Let not thy good hope depart,
Sit not down bewailing ;

Rouse thy strength anew, brave heart! 'Neath despair's assailing:

This will give thee fairer start-
Knowledge of thy failing.

Yet shall every rampant wrong

In the dust be lying;

Soon thy foes, though proud and strong, In defeat be flying;

Then shall a triumphant song

Take the place of sighing.

J. K. LOMBARD.

WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE.

HE huge, rough stones from out the mine, Unsightly and unfair,

Have veins of purest metal hid

Beneath the surface there.

Few rocks so bare but to their hights

Some tiny moss-plant clings;
And on the peaks so desolate,

The sea-bird sits and sings.
Believe me, too, that rugged souls,
Beneath their rudeness, hide
Much that is beautiful and good-
We've all our angel side.

In all there is an inner depth,
A far-off, secret way,

Where, through the windows of the soul,
God sends His smiling ray.

In every human heart there is

A faithful, sounding chord

That may be struck, unknown to us,
By some sweet, loving word.
The wayward will in man may try
Its softer thoughts to hide—
Some unexpected tone reveals
It has an angel side.

Despised, and lone, and trodden down,
Dark with the shades of sin,
Deciphering not those halo-lights
Which God has lit within;
Groping about in endless night,
Poor, poisoned souls they are,
Who guess not what life's meaning is
Nor dream of heaven afar.

O that some gentle hand of love
Their stumbling steps would guide,
And show them that, amidst it all,
Life has its angel side!