Serve Him in daily toil and holy living, And Faith shall lift thee to His sunlit heights;

Then shall a psalm of gladness and thanksgiving

THE NEGLECTED CALL.

WHEN the fields were white with harvest, and the laborers were few,

the lights.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern homes

once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prison'd they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or

rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days:

Will dreary hours never leave the earth? O doubting heart!

work for thee to do;

once again?

"Hast thou need to toil and labor? art

thou fitted for the work?

Many a hidden stone to bruise thee in the

harvest-field doth lurk;

There are others call'd beside thee, and

perchance the voice may be

But thy own delusive fancy, which thou hearest calling thee-

There is time enough before thee, all thy footsteps to retrace."

Then I yielded to the Tempter, and the angel veil'd her face.

Pleasure beckon'd in the distance, and her siren song was sweet, Through a thornless path of flowers gently I will guide thy feet. Youth is as a rapid river, gliding noiselessly away,

Earth is but a pleasant garden; cull its roses whilst thou may;

Press the juice from purple clusters, fill

life's chalice with the wine, Taste the fairest fruits which tempt thee, all its richest fruits are thine."

Ah! the path was smooth and easy, but a snare was set therein,

And the feet were oft entangled in the

fearful mesh of sin, And the canker-worm was hidden in the rose-leaf folded up,

And the sparkling wine of pleasure was a fatal Circean cup;

All its fruits were Dead Sea apples, tempting only to the sight,

Fair yet fill'd with dust and ashes-beau

tiful, but touch'd with blight.

"O my Father," cried I inly, "Thou hast

striven-I have will'd;

Now the mission of the angel of Thy patience is fulfill'd;

I have tasted earthly pleasures, yet my soul is craving food;

Let the summons Thou hast given to Thy harvest be renew'd;

garner up the grain."

But the still small voice within me, earnest in its truth and deep,

Answer'd my awaken'd conscience, “As thou sowest thou shalt reap; God is just, and retribution follows each neglected call;

Thou hadst thy appointed duty taught thee by the Lord of all;

Thou wert chosen, but another fill'd the place assigned thee,

Henceforth in my field of labor thou mayst but a gleaner be.

"But a work is still before thee-see thou linger not again;

Separate the chaff thou gleanest, beat it from among the grain;

Follow after these my reapers, let thine eyes be on the field,

Gather up the precious handfuls their abundant wheat-sheaves yield; Go not hence to glean, but tarry from the morning until night;

Be thou faithful, thou mayst yet find favor in thy Master's sight."

HANNAH LLOYD NEALE.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
By secret sorrow close conceal'd,

What must not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast

Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,

Where disappointment cannot come; And Time guides with unerring feet The weary wanderers home.

ANNE HUNTER.

When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil:

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep:

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of Memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch:

O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care:

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think:

When, from the eye, the soul
Takes flight; and on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole
Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray :

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will His followers do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God. Night is the time for Death:

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends;--such death be mine.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

GOOD COUNSEIL OF CHAUCER.

FLEE fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse;

Suffice the thy good though hit be smale; For horde hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse,

Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle. Savoure no more then the behove shalle; Rede wel thy self that other folke canst rede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.

Peyne the not eche croked to redresse

In trust of hire that turneth as a balle, Grete rest stant in lytil besynesse;

Bewar also to spurne ayeine an nalle, Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle; Daunt thy selfe that dauntest otheres dede, And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no drede.

That the ys sent receyve in buxomnesse, The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle; Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse. Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thy stalle!

Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle; Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede, And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no drede.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

SIC VITA.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot!

LINES.

HENRY KING.

WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND CONDEMNED TO DIE.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares,

And all my goodes is but vain hope of

gain.

The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, and yet it hath not

sprung,

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are

green;

My youth is past, and yet I am but young,

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,

I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my

tombe,

And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done!

CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.

ON HIS DIVINE POEMS. WHEN we for age could neither read nor write,

The subject made us able to indite:
The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd,
The body stooping, does herself erect:
No mortal parts are requisite to raise
Her that unbodied can her Maker praise.