Our refuge when the spoiler's hand
Was heavy on our native land;
And freedom to her children due,
The wolf and vulture only knew.

We praised Him when to prison led,

We owned Him when the stake blazed red;
We knew, whatever might befall,
His love and power were over all

He heard our prayers; with outstretched arm

He led us forth from cruel harm;
Still, whereso'er our steps were bent,

His cloud and fire before us went!

L

The watch of faith and prayer He set;
We kept it then, we keep it yet.
At midnight, crow of cock, or noon,
He cometh sure, He cometh soon.

Sweep, flaming besom, sweep from sight The lies of time; be swift to smite, Sharp sword of God, all idols down, Genevan creed and Roman crown.

Quake, earth through all thy zones, till all
The fames of pride and priestcraft fall;
And lift thou up in place of them
The gates of pearl, Jerusalem!

Lo! rising from the baptismal flame,
Transfigured, glorious, yet the same,
Within the heavenly city's bound
Our Kloster Kedar shall be found.

He cometh soon! at dawn or noon
Or set of sun, He cometh soon.
Our prayers shall meet Him on His way;
Wake, sisters, wake! arise and pray!

-John Greenleaf Whittier.

Is weather-proof,

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall,
And kitchen small;
A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,

The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent:

And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 't is Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land:

All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end:

That I should render for my part A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine:

But the acceptance-that must be, O Lord, by Thee.

-Robert Herrick.

A

POOR little girl in a tattered gown,

Wandering alone through the crowded town All weary and worn on the curb sat down,

By the side of the way to rest;

Bedimmed with tears were her eyes of brown,
Her hands on her bosom pressed.

The night was approaching-the winter's chill blast
That fell on the child as he hurried past,
Concealed the tears that were falling fast
From the poor little maiden's eye-
The blinding snow on her pale cheek cast,
Unheeded her plaintive cry.

Now hurriedly passing along the street,
She catches the sound of approaching feet;
And wearily rises, as if to entreat

Some aid from the passer by;

But slowly and sadly resumes her seat,
Repelled by the glance of his eye.

He saw the wind tempest resistlessly whirl
The gathering snow-flakes, with many a whirl,
Upon her bare head, where each soft-shining curl
Was swept by the breath of the storm;
But what did he care for the little girl-
His raiment was ample and warm!

He went to a charity meeting that night
And spoke, to the listeners' great delight,
Of how 'twas the duty of all to unite,

The suffering poor to relieve;

And held up his check for a thousand at sight,
So all of the crowd could perceive.

He handed the check to the treasurer, when
The audience applauded again and again,
But the angel who holds the recording pen
This sentence methinks did record:
"He doeth his alms to be seen of men,
Their praise is his only reward."

The paper next morning had much to say
Of how the "good gentleman" did display
His generous spirit, in giving away

So much for the poor man's cause.
He smiled as he read his own praise that day
And thought of the night's applause.

Near by, the same paper went on to repeat
A story they'd heard, of how, out on the street,
A watchman at dawning of morn on his beat,
A poor little child had found-

With only the snow for a winding sheet-
Frozen to death on the ground!

Ah! who can declare that when God shall unfold Eternity's records, he will not hold

Him guilty of murder, who seeks with his gold,
In charity's name to buy

The praises of men, while out in the cold
He leaves a poor child to die.

-Anonymous.

"M

WISTER," the little fellow said,
"Please give me a dime to buy some
bread."

I turned to look at the ragged form,

That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched and haggard and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old;

He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His eyes were red-with weeping, I fearAnd adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then.

His misery struck me dumb; 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum, Where an errand of duty led my feet That day, through the storm and blinding sleet. "Poor little fellow !" at last I said, "Have you no father?"

"No, he's dead!"

The answer came: "You've a mother, then ?"
Yes, sir," he said, with a sob: She's been
Sick for a year, and the doctor said
She'd never again get up from bed."
"You are hungry, too?" I asked in pain,
As I looked at his poor, wan face again.
"Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan
That would melt to pity a heart of stone;

"I am starved; we are all starving," he said,
"We haven't had a crust of bread-
Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate-
Since yesterday morning."

I did not wait

To ask him more. "Come, come," I cried,
"You shall not hunger;" and at my side
His poor little pattering footsteps fell
On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell;

But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop
Before the door of a baker's shop,

And we entered.

"Now eat away, my boy,

As much as you like," I said. With joy, And a soft expression of childish grace, He looked up into my friendly face,

Said I:

The tears came rushing-I can't tell why-
To my eyes, as he spoke these words.
"God bless you! Here, you brave little man,
Here, carry home all the bread you can.”
Then I loaded him down with loaves, until
He could carry no more. I paid the bill;
And before he could quite understand
Just what I was doing, into his hand

I slipped a bright new dollar; then said,
'Good-by," and away on my journey sped.

'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, As I wandered by chance through East Broadway, A cheery voice accosted me. Lo!

'Twas the self-same lad of years ago,

Though larger grown-and his looks, in truth, Bespoke a sober, industrious youth.

"Mister," he said, "I'll never forget

The kindness you showed when last we met.

I work at a trade, and mother is well,

So is baby Kate; and I want to tell

You this-that we owe it all to you.

'Twas you don't blush, sir-that helped us through

In our darkest hour; and we always say
Our luck has been better since that day
When you sent me home with bread to feed
Those starving ones in their hour of need."
-George L. Catlin.

NOW

Hither we come in gloom

To make a mighty tomb,

Sighing and weeping. Grand was the life he led; Wise was each word he said;

But with the noble dead

We leave him sleeping.

Soft may his body rest

As on his mother's breast, Whose love stands all confessed

'Mid blinding tears; But may his soul so white Rise in triumphant flight,

And in God's land of light

Spend endless years.

-David Swing.

W

HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame, By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between, No portents now our foes' amaze—

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

253

But, present, still though now unseen,
When brightly shines the prosperous day!
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen,
To temper the deceitful ray.
And O, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
"A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams-
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump and horn.
But Thou hast said, "The blood of goats,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize-
A contrite heart, and humble thoughts,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

-Sir Walter Scott.