MY FATHER AT THE HELM.

THE curling waves with awful roar
A little boat assailed;

And pallid fear's distracting power
O'er all on board prevailed.

Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm,
And cheerful, with composure smiled
At danger's threatening form.

124

THE NIGHTINGALE.

'Why sport'st thou thus," a seaman cried, "While terrors overwhelm ?"

Why should I fear ?" the boy replied,

"My father's at the helm !”

So when our worldly all is reft,
Our earthly helper gone,

We still have one true anchor left,
God helps, and He alone.

;

Then turn to Him, 'mid sorrows wild,
When wants and woes o'erwhelm
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father's at the helm.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

CHILD'S EVENING HYMN. :

WHEN twilight's grey and pensive hour
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,
And bids the solitary star

Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil,

And peasants seek their village dale,

And mists from river-wave arise,

And dew in every blossom lies;

THE NIGHTINGALE.

When evening's primrose opes to shed,
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed;
When glow-worms on the wood-walk light
Their lamp to cheer the traveller's sight;

At that calm hour, so still, so pale,
Awakes the lonely nightingale ;
And, from a hermitage of shade,
Fills with her voice the forest glade.

And sweeter far that melting voice
Than all which through the day rejoice
And still shall bard and wanderer love
The twilight music of the grove.

Father in heaven! oh, thus when day
With all its cares has pass'd away,
And silent hours waft peace on earth,
And hush the louder strains of mirth;

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer
To Thee my spirit's offering bear;

Yon star, my signal, set on high,
For vesper hymns of piety.

So may Thy mercy and Thy power
Protect me through the midnight hour,
And balmy sleep and visions blest
Smile on thy servant's bed of rest.

HEM ANS.

125

HARVEST HYMN.

ONCE again a plenteous harvest
Fills with joy our favoured land,
And before our Father's presence,

One and all, His children stand,
Songs of praise together singing,
Grateful vows together bringing.

Though His love too oft forgetting,
We to sinful ways incline;
Still upon the just and unjust

Maketh He His face to shine;
Still with mercy's ample measure
Dealeth forth His heavenly treasure.

Lessons sweet of love He teacheth
In the season's glad return,
Bidding hearts and hands that languish
Hope and consolation learn;
For the harvest, sown in weeping,
Cometh to a joyous reaping.

And His voice of solemn warning
Cometh forth from every field
To the souls that live unwatchful,
Or to sinful pleasure yield,—
"Daily life is daily sowing,-
Heaven or hell in each is growing !"

THE DYING MOTHER.

Now to Him, who giveth all things,
To our Father and our King,
Raise we heartfelt adorations,
While our grateful vows we bring.
Hallelujah Hallelujah!

Hallelujah! still we sing!

127

THE DYING MOTHER.

Oп, had I pinions of a dove,
To shelter thee, my child!
Thou art so artless, and thy heart
So easily beguiled.

I have watched thee from thine infancy
With tenderness, but now

The dews of death are falling fast
Upon thy mother's brow.

Thou wast a lovely babe when first
Thine infant smiles were given
To cheer thy mother's widowed heart,
A precious gift from heaven.
I used to gaze upon thy face,
Upon thine open brow,

And trace resemblances to him

Who is in glory now.