If our love were but more simple, We should take Him at His word; And our lives would be all sunshine In the sweetness of our Lord. THE GIFTS OF GOD. My Soul! what hast thou done for God? Look o'er thy misspent years and see; Sum up what thou hast done for God, And then what God hath done for thee. He made thee when He might have made And set thee on life's happy shore. He placed an angel at thy side, And strewed joys round thee on thy way; He gave thee rights thou couldst not claim, And life, free life, before thee lay. Had God in heaven no work to do So must it seem to our blind eyes: And new designs to make them blest. And with His Blood sin's captives won. The world rose up against His love: For His Eternal Spirit came To raise the thankless slaves to sons, Men spurned His grace; their lips blasphemed And turned against Him what He gave. Yet still the sun is fair by day, The moon still beautiful by night; No voice God's wondrous silence breaks, On high in humblest patience dwells. The Son hath come; and maddened sin And now the Father keeps Himself, To be His creature's heritage Oh wonderful, oh passing thought, The love that God hath had for thee, Spending on thee no less a sum Than the Undivided Trinity! Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost, What hast thou done for God, my soul? Look o'er thy misspent years and see; Cry from thy worse than nothingness, Cry for His mercy upon thee. DISTRACTIONS IN PRAYER. Ан, dearest Lord! I cannot pray, And force my thoughts from Thee. The world that looks so dull all day All Nature one full fountain seems Of dreamy sight and sound, Which, when I kneel, breaks up its deeps, And makes a deluge round. Old voices murmur in my ear, New hopes start into life, And past and future gaily blend In one bewitching strife. My very flesh has restless fits; I cannot pray; yet, Lord! Thou know'st To have my vainly struggling thoughts Thus torn away from Thee. Sweet Jesus! teach me how to prize Prayer was not meant for luxury, It is the prostrate creature's place Had I, dear Lord! no pleasure found Prayer would have come unsought, and been Yet Thou art oft most present, Lord! A sinner out of heart with self THE OLD LABORER. 493 For prayer that humbles sets the soul From all illusions free, And teaches it how utterly, Dear Lord! it hangs on Thee. The heart, that on self-sacrifice Is covetously bent, Will bless Thy chastening hand that makes My Saviour! why should I complain, These surface-troubles come and go, THE OLD LABORER. WHAT end doth he fulfil? He seems without a will, Stupid, unhelpful, helpless, age-worn man! Done what he could, and now does what he can. And this forsooth is all! Hath a more positive work to do than he: He crawls in sunshine which he does not see. What doth God get from him? Too weak to love, and too obtuse to fear. Is there meaning in his life? Can God hold such a thing-like person dear? Peace! he is dying now; No light is on his brow; He makes no sign, but without sign departs. To take to God their over-weighted hearts. Born only to endure, The patient passive poor Seem useful chiefly by their multitude; For they are men who keep Their lives secret and deep; Alas! the poor are seldom understood. This laborer that is gone And homeless as his Saviour was before him; His longing, love, or fear, Nor what he thought of life as it passed o'er him. He had so long been old, He had no love to take, no love to give: 'T was such a weary sight to see him live. He walked with painful stoop, As if life made him droop, And care had fastened fetters round his feet; Reflected from the rain-pools in the street. To whom was, he of good? He used the earth and air, and kindled fire: Less as a right than grief To what might such a soul as his aspire? His inexpressive eye Peered round him vacantly, As if whate'er he did he would be chidden; As the great angels have, untold and hidden. Alway his downcast eye As if he found some jubilee in thinking; In that one thought he abode, A kind of passive strife, Upon the God within his heart relying; Because he was unknown, But he heard the angels sing when he was dying God judges by a light Which baffles mortal sight, And the useless-seeming man the crown hath won: In his vast world above, A world of broader love, God hath some grand employment for His son. AUTUMN. AUTUMN once more begins to teach; Life glides away in many a bend, Years pass away; new crosses come; And thy beauty makes Jesus and Angels more glad: Saints' mothers have sung when their eldestborn died, Oh, why, my own saint! is thy mother so sad? Go, go with thy God, with thy Saviour, my child! Thou art His; I am His; and thy sisters are His: But to-day thy fond mother with sorrow is wild! To think that her son is an angel in bliss! Oh, forgive me, dear Saviour! on heaven's bright shore Should I still in my child find a separate joy: While I lie in the light of Thy Face evermore, May I think heaven brighter because of my boy? THE LAND BEYOND THE SEA. THE Land beyond the Sea! When shall we reach that soft blue shore, roar? When shall we come to thee, The Land beyond the Sea! When flushed with evening's peaceful gleams; And the wistful heart looks o'er the strait, and dreams! It longs to fly to thee, The Land beyond the Sea! The Land beyond the Sea! Calm Land beyond the Sea! The Land beyond the Sea! 'Mid our not unsubmissive tears, Have borne, now singly, now in fleets, the biers The Land beyond the Sea! How dark our present home! The Land beyond the Sea! The Land beyond the Sea! Why art thou better seen toward night? The Land beyond the Sea! Sweet is thine endless rest, SAMUEL FERGUSON. SAMUEL FERGUSON was born in Belfast, Ire- | land, about 1815. He was educated at the University of Dublin, and in 1838 was called to the Irish bar. He has since resided and practised his profession in Dublin. In 1865 he received the degree of LL. D. from his alma mater. He THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains-the black mould heaves below; And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe. It rises, roars, rends all outright-0 Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright-the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show! The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths-that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe! As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow |