Why turn each cool grey shadow
Into a world of fears ?

Why say the winds are wailing?
Why call the dew drops tears?

The voices of happy nature,

And the heaven's sunny gleam, Reprove the sick heart's fancies,— Upbraid thy foolish dream.

Listen, and I will tell thee,

The song creation sings,

From the humming of bees in the heather, To the flutter of angels' wings.

An echo rings for ever,

The sound can never cease;

It speaks to God of glory,

It speaks to earth of peace.

Not alone did angels sing it
To the poor shepherds' ear,
But the sphered heavens chant it,
While listening ages hear.

Above thy peevish wailing
Rises that holy song;
Above earth's foolish clamour,
Above the voice of wrong.

No creature of God's too lowly,
To murmur peace and praise :
When the starry nights grow silent,
Then speak the sunny days.

So leave thy sick heart's fancies,
And lend thy little voice,
To the silver song of glory
That bids the world rejoice.

From Legends and Lyrics, by A. A. PROCTER.

"Lead thou me on."

SEND kindly light amid the encircling gloom, and lead

me on;

The night is dark, and I am far from home; lead

Thou me on.

Keep Thou my feet, I do not wish to see

The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

I was not always thus, nor prayed that Thou should'st lead me on;

I loved to choose, and see my path; but, now, lead
Thou me on.

I loved day's dazzling light, and, spite of fears
Pride ruled my will,-remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blessed me, surely still
Thou'lt lead me on,

Through dreary doubt, through pain and sorrow, till the night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost the while.

MURMURS.

SOME murmur when the sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are filled,
If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy gild
The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied.
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.

TRENCH.

"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

We live not in our moments, or our years,
The present we fling from us like the rind
Of some sweet future, which we after find
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand with our tears-

Vain tears, for that which never may arrive:
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded, disappears.

Wiser it were to welcome and make ours
Whate'er of good, though small, the present brings-
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds, and flowers,
With a child's pure delight in little things;
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,

Knowing that mercy ever will endure.

TRENCH.

ASPECTS.

LIFE is but a weary chafing

In the dusk, 'tween prison-bars ;-
Life is wending, climbing,-soaring
From the mountains to the stars!

Work is but a lonely toiling
Thwarted oft, and oft in vain ;-
Work is from the MASTER-BUILDER
Granted, guided, sure of gain!

Joy is but a flickering gleaming,
Fading slow to ashen gray;-
Joy is quenchless sun-light, beaming
Somewhere for us, night and day!

Brother, choose: Life, Joy and Labour,
All thy needs, and all desires,
Seen as in the light of Tabor,
Or the sparks of earthly fires?

M. G. T.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit"

Two things have shone with golden light
Upon the way where we are sent,-
A rich man poor in his own sight,
And a poor man rich in his content.
But a nobler thing than even these,
And shining with a light more pure,
Is a poor man kneeling on his knees,
And thanking God that he is poor.

W. W. How.

SICKNESS

LAY OF PEACE IN SICKNESS.

"For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal."

PLEASANTLY passeth the summer away,

Gladly the sun lights my chamber each day,
Softly my head on the pillow is prest;

Few are my pains, and my spirit hath rest.

Soon as the twilight of evening is seen,
Hush'd on the bosom of Jesus I lean;

Wait I there, calmly, asleep or awake,
Compass'd with love till the grey morning break.