Oh no! you are-the little Bess,
A little spirit sent to bless

All about you-no more-no less-
A pledge of love,

In casket of rich loveliness,

From One above.

What are you crying, Lady dear?
You've left His breast, but do not fear,
Your Heav'nly Father-He is here,
Oh, do not spurn,

Wash'd with His blood His woes to bear,
And then return.

THE CURE FOR REGRET.

When tearful Absence sits alone,
Then deeds unkindly done,
Woke by the stillness, come and cower
Round Memory's ivied tower.
(Oh, 'tis the bird of saddest wing,
In Sorrow's twilight hovering!)

Shall wounded spirit find relief
From such a sacred grief?
It is alone within Thy breast,
Dear God of peace and rest,
Bidding us leave with Thee the past,
If but our love may onward last!

It is with her whose holy form,
From colours of the storm

Made a bright mantle, on that hill

Sitting where all is still,

Save where dark shrouded forms draw nigh, 'Mid the dread gloom of Calvary.

Yea, I have cast about my net,

And tried all waters; set

To find sweet thoughts, but, like the Moon

'Neath waters seen at noon,

Peace shews below her gleaming face,

But is not in the world's embrace.

Yet if aright attuned the heart,
In all she hath a part,

On tuft and tree is dewy light,

Though round us it be night;

And stars look forth from out the skies,
To tell His love till day arise.

HEAVENLY SIGNS.

"He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. And in the morning, It will be foul weather to-day: for the sky is red and lowring." St. Matthew xvi. 2, 3.

Oh, ask no sign from Heav'n; ye know full well
All Nature's stops and changes, and from far
Each note prelusive from her unseen cell,
Of sunshine or of storm the harbinger;
And all that speaks in comings on
Of Evening, when the western Sun

Is seen in beauty on the sea and sky,

With the Moon's silver boat in silence launching by.

Then from some pine-tree top a lonely hern
Looks forth; and from afar are stilly heard
Steps of the storm, in acquiescence stern,
Retiring; fitful sounds of nestling bird;
And Echo, from her mountain cave,
Faint whispering to the drowsy wave;

Then Hope, 'mid darkening shadows not unblest, Wrapping her mantle round, resigns herself to rest.

And can ye not perceive streaks that illume
This world of sorrow, and a milder sky,
(Which speaks a fairer morn beyond the tomb,)
In gentleness and mercy kindling nigh?
Have ye no heart, no ear, no eye,

The glowing footsteps to descry,

Where, 'mid this earth, a Holy One hath trod, 'Mid things of man despis'd, the better things of God?

Have ye not seen Him? as that eye He rais'd,
Beneath the guise of loveless poverty,
One who hath gazing heard, and hearing gazed,
Hath seen a more than Angel Majesty.

And from behind her secret screen,

Where shrouded Conscience sat unseen,

She found an ear that heard the unspoken word, And an unwonted eye, still fear'd when not ador❜d.

Have ye not seen Him, where the poor have throng'd-
The lisping infant on his sacred arm?
That look hath not to mortal-born belong'd;
But on your eyes there is a blinding charm,
Which Satan more and more doth lay
Upon the heart that will not pray:

Earth's cherish'd toys grow on the longing eye, And thence shut out the worlds that fill the mighty

sky.