OUR LAMBS

IN THE FOLD ABOVE.

Going Home.

'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.'— St. Mark, x. 14.

THEY are going, only going;
Jesus called them long ago!

All the wintry time they're passing
Softly as the falling snow.

When the violets in the spring-time
Catch the azure of the sky,
They are carried out to slumber

Sweetly where the violets lie.

B

They are going, only going,

When with summer earth is drest, In their cold hands holding roses

Folded to each silent breast: When the autumn hangs red banners Out above the harvest sheaves, They are going, ever going,

Thick and fast, like falling leaves.

All along the mighty ages,

All adown the solemn time,
They have taken up their homeward
March to that serener clime,
Where the watching, waiting angels,
Lead them from the shadow dim,
To the brightness of His Presence
Who has called them unto Him.

They are going, only going,
Out of pain and into bliss,
Out of sad and sinful weakness,

Into perfect holiness.

4

Snowy brows, no care shall shade them; Bright eyes, tears shall never dim; Rosy lips, no time shall fade them: Jesus called them unto Him.

Little hearts for ever stainless,
Little hands as pure as they,
Little feet, by angels guided
Never a forbidden way!
They are going, ever going,

Leaving many a lovely spot;

But 'tis Jesus who has called them,

Suffer, and forbid them not.

From Lyra Anglicana.

THIS is not death; ah, no! why do ye weep? Our darling's eyes are closed in peaceful

sleep :

The limbs, but now so racked with pain, at rest;
The slender hands are crossed upon the breast;
The heart, whose pulses beat, alas! too fast,
Is quiet now-aye, hushed to rest at last ;
The dark hair parted smooth upon the brow,
No lines of suffering-all is pure peace now:
Aye, peace, for mark the smile her dear face

wears,

And, marking it, restrain your sobs and tears.
What do we read on that loved face, whose calm
Is to our aching hearts as healing balm ?
No fear of death, we read, but perfect joy,
The promise of the life without alloy ;

Angels could wear no brighter mien than this,
The face has caught the shadow of their bliss ;
Then o'er our darling let us vigil keep,

As peacefully she lies in death's deep sleep. From Through the Woods.

WE

E must not mourn for thee, my broken flower!

Purer and dearer than earth's fairest bloom ; Nor weep to think how brief thy fleeting hour Of hope and joy—a cradle and a tomb. Ah, no! for ere one shade of faintest gloom Had dimmed the light of young love's cloudless day,

The darkness came, our darling passed away, And we are left to mourn our early doom:

But not with bitter tears-for far above All earthly hopes, around the cross had twined Her helpless heart, in trustfulness and love. And now, all sin and sorrow left behind, Safe on her Saviour's breast she waits to see

Her loved ones come; oh, darling! who could

weep for thee?

EMMA TOKE,
From Voices of Comfort.