LINES

IN MEMORY OF JOHN THORNTON.

THEE to deplore were grief misspent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder skies,
And glory for the Christian when he dies.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils for daily food;
Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth,
By rust imperishable, or by stealth;
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,

Thine had a value in the scales of heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own;
Yet was thy liberality discreet,

Nice in its choice, and of a tempered heat;
And though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,

And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.

CowPER.

ENCOURAGEMENT TO PARENTS.

Prov. xxii. 6.

FATHER, watching o'er thy child,
Mother, filled with anxious care,

In the soil by sin defiled,

Sow the seed, and sow with prayer.

Though the winter o'er it spread, Though no fruit nor flower appear, It may not be lost or dead,

Still refrain not in despair.

One day heavenly light may shine,
One day come the fruitful shower,
And the heart, by grace divine,
Feel a vivifying power.

Though perchance it meet thine eyes
Only when 'tis gathered in,
Housed and garnered in the skies,
Safe from every blight of sin;
Parent, friend, the soil prepare,
Sow the seed, and sow with prayer.

EDMESTON.

CHRISTIAN EXERTION.

TELL me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us holier than to-day.

LONGFELLOW.

ANXIETY,

Isaiah L. 10.

ALONG my earthly way

How many snares are spread! Darkness with scarce a cheerful ray, Seems gathering o'er my head.

And if the beauteous bow

Of Hope sometimes appears, Like earth's, 'tis but a sign of woe, On showers of falling tears.

Yet Father, Thou art love;
Oh, hide not from my view!
But when I look in prayer above,
Bid mercy sparkle through.

Oh may my heart be bent
In all to meet thy will;
In holy faith and sweet content,
Through seeming good or ill.

Lead me, and then my feet

Shall never, never stray;

But safely I shall reach the seat
Of everlasting day.

EDMESTON.

APPEAL OF THE BLIND.

SUNG BY BOYS IN AN ASYLUM.

YE see the glorious sun

The varied landscape light,

The moon, with all her starry train,
Illume the arch of night;
Bright tree, and bird, and flower,
That deck your joyous way,
The face of kindred and of friend,
More fair, more dear than they.

For us there glows no sun,

No green and flowery lawn;
Our rayless darkness hath no moon,
Our midnight knows no dawn;
The parent's pitying eye,

To all our sorrows true,

The brother's brow, the sister's smile,
Have never met our view.

We have a lamp within,

That knowledge fain would light, And pure Religion's radiance touch, With beams for ever bright.

Say, shall it rise to share

Such radiance full and free?

And will ye keep a Saviour's charge,
And cause the blind to see?

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

H

IMPATIENCE.

"Neither murmur ye."-I. Cor. x. 10.

Surely it is a murmuring tone

That strikes upon my ear,
Peace! peace! thou poor afflicted one,
The Lord is swift to hear.
Whate'er thy grief, whate'er thy lot,
'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.

Is it thy portion, here below,
In poverty to pine?

And as thy neighbour's riches grow,
Dost thou desire them thine ?

No earthly treasure hast thou got?— 'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.

Or hast thou weakness, pain, or scorn,
So difficult to bear?

Art thou forsaken and forlorn,
Weary and full of care ?

Yet keep thee from the sinful blot,
'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.

Remember that our Lord was poor,
Despised and sore opprest;
Think of his patience to endure—
Think of his troubled breast.
For thee He bore that bitter lot,

He loved thee—and He murmured not.