Their living charms my heart still numbers;
Ah! sure they do but veil thy slumbers!

for still thou'rt meeting

As kind thou art;
This breast, which gives the tender greeting!
And shall I deem thee altered? - Never!
Thou'rt with me waking-dreaming—ever!

THE MISSION OF CHRIST UNIVERSAL.

Он, yes! there is joy in sincerely believing,
No heart that is faithless can dream of, or know;
There is strength in the thought that our souls are re-

ceiving

Such wealth as a Father alone can bestow.
Then away with the dogma that sin is eternal!
It dims the bright glow of Immanuel's name;
For it was not to build up a kingdom infernal
That Jesus, the Friend of the sorrowful, came.

It was not to lay in the path of the blinded

High walls, over which they must stumble and fall, That He came, all sublime and serene and highminded,

And laid down his life
a redemption for all!
It was not to slaughter, in anger and blindness,
The wandering lambs that were dying of cold,
That he lifted them up to his bosom in kindness,

And brought them all home to their rest in the fold.

He is good, and the heart that serenely reposes

And lays down its burthens to rest in his love, Will find that the door of salvation ne'er closes

So long as one sinner continues to rove.

He loves the young lambs, though afar they are straying, He seeks out the weary with tender concern;

Oh hear His soft voice in the wilderness praying, "To the arms of your Saviour poor lost ones return!"

MRS. S. C EDGARTON MAYO.

- 1819-1848.

THE GOSPEL'S PROMISES FOR ALL.

POUR, blessed Gospel, glorious news for man!

Thy stream of life o'er springless deserts roll: Thy bond of peace the mighty earth can span, And make one brotherhood from pole to pole.

On, piercing Gospel, on! of every heart,
In every latitude, thou own'st the key:
From their dull slumbers savage souls shall start,
With all their treasures first unlocked by thee.

Spread, mighty Gospel, spread thy soaring wings!
Gather thy scattered ones from every land:
Call home the wanderers to the King of kings;
Proclaim them all thine own; 'tis Christ's command!
C. ASHWORTH.-1709-1744.

A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD.

We walked within the churchyard bounds,

My little boy and I;

He, laughing, running happy rounds
I, pacing mournfully.

"Nay, child, it is not well," I said, Among the graves to shout,

66

To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout."

A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play,

A moment stilled his joyous tongue,
Almost as hushed as they.

Then quite forgetting the command,

In life's exulting burst

Of early glee, let go my hand,
Joyous as at the first.

And now I did not check him more,
For, taught by Nature's face,

I had grown wiser than before,

E'en in that moment's space.

She spread no funeral-pall above
That patch of churchyard ground,

But the same azure vault of love

As hung o'er all around.

And white clouds o'er that spot would

As freely as elsewhere;

The sunshine on no other grass

A richer hue might wear.

And, formed from out that very mould
In which the dead did lie,
The daisy, with its eye of gold,
Looked up into the sky.

The rook was wheeling overhead,

Nor hastened to be gone;
The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perched on a gray headstone.

And God, I said, would never give
This light upon the earth,

Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,

If our one wisdom were to mourn,
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm and earthy bed.

Oh, no! the glory earth puts on,

The child's unchecked delight,

pass

Both witness to a triumph won,
If we but read aright;

A triumph won o'er sin and death;
From these the Saviour saves;
And, like a happy infant, Faith
Can play among the graves.

PUPIL AND TUTOR.

P. WHAT shall I do, lest life in silence pass?

And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,
What need'st thou rue?

Remember aye the ocean deeps are mute,
The shallows roar.

Worth is the ocean; fame is but the bruit
Along the shore.

P. What shall I do to be forever known?

P. This did full many who yet sleep unknown.

T.

Oh! never, never.

Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknown
Whom thou know'st not?

By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown,
Divine their lot!