I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar,

The angel sought so far away

I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,
And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south winds softly sigh,

And sweet calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word

Rebuke an age of wrong:

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.

Enough that blessings undeserved
Have mark'd my erring track,

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chast'ning turn'd me back;

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good;

That death seems but a cover'd way,

Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast

In purple distance fair;

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west winds play: And all the windows of my heart I open to this day.- Whittier.

2nd Child. They planted herWill she come up next year?

1st Child. No, not so soon;

But some day God will call her to come up, And then she will. Papa knows everything; He said she would, before they planted her. Jean Ingelow.

433. CHILD. Death of a

WHEN the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And, with milk-white fingers, parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes :
That's the time our little baby-
Stray'd from paradise it may be—
Came with eyes like heaven above her;
Oh, we could not choose but love her!

Not enough of earth for sinning,
Always gentle, always winning,
Never needing our reproving,
Ever lovely, ever loving;
Starry eyes, and sunset tresses,

White arms, made for light caresses,
Lips, that knew no word of doubting,
Often kissing, never pouting;
Beauty, even in completeness,
Over-full of childish sweetness :
That's the way our little baby,
Far too pure for earth, it may be,
Seem'd to us, who, while about her,
Deem'd we could not do without her.

When the morning, half in shadow,
Ran along the hill and meadow,
And, with milk-white fingers, parted
Crimson roses, golden-hearted;
Opening over ruins hoary
Every purple morning-glory,
And outshaking from the bushes,
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes :
That's the time our little baby,
Pining here for heaven, it may be,
Turning from our bitter weeping,
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping,
And her white hands on her bosom
Folded, like a summer blossom.

Now, the litter she doth lie on,
Strew'd with roses, bear to Zion;
Go, as past a pleasant meadow,
Through the valley of the shadow.

In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, Thou shalt see me there!'
Yes, we all live to God!

Father, Thy chastening rod

So help us, Thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That in the spirit-land,

Meeting at Thy right hand,

'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there. Pierpont.

436. CHILDHOOD. Beauty of
BEAUTIFUL, beautiful childhood! with a joy
That like a robe is palpable, and flung
Out by your ev'ry motion! delicate bud
Of the immortal flower that will unfold
And come to its maturity in heaven!
I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light
Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out
With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,
Then sink of its own heaviness. The face
Of the delightful earth will to your eye
Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers
Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice
Of nature in her gentleness will be
To manhood's senseless ear inaudible.-Willis.

437. CHILDHOOD. Mystery of

'Tis aye a solemn thing to me

To look upon a babe that sleeps—
Wearing in its spirit-deeps

The unrevealed mystery

Of its Adam's taint and woe,

Which, when they revealed lie,

Will not let it slumber so.-E. B. Browning.

438. CHILDREN. Benefit of

A DREARY place would be this earth

Were there no little people in it; The song of life would lose its mirth

Were there no children to begin it. No little forms, like buds, to grow, And make the admiring heart surrender; No little hands on breast and brow, To keep the thrilling love-chords tender. No rosy boys, at wintry morn,

With satchels to the school-house hasting; No merry shouts as home they rush,

No precious morsel for their tasting. Tall, grave, grown people at the door,

Tall, grave, grown people at the table;

The men on business all intent,

The dames lugubrious as they're able; The sterner souls would get more stern, Unfeeling natures more inhuman, And man to stoic coldness turn,

And woman would be less than woman.

Life's song, indeed, would lose its charm,
Were there no babies to begin it;

A doleful place this world would be,
Were there no little people in it.

439. CHILDREN. Death and the

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

'Shall I have nought that is fair?' saith he;
'Have nought but the bearded grain ?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.'

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kiss'd their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

And many hours I spent in weary toil,

Mid burning suns and storms of childish tears,
To root the weed from out my garden's soil,
Which to the tiller's eye so vile appears.

Yet day by day my care seem'd all for nought;
In despite of my toil still grew the weeds;
And the free soil for which my hand had sought
Nowhere I found to plant the goodly seeds.

A kindly neighbour saw me o'er the wall,

And ask'd me why I toil'd so long for nought; 'For thus,' he said, 'thou wilt not work their fall, Nor gain the end for which thou long hast wrought. 'Put in thy plough, then plant the clover seeds, And mark me if I speak thee not the truth: The seeds will grow and choke the hateful weeds To which thy tireless hand hath shown no ruth.' Ah, kindly neighbour, o'er the garden wall, Thou'st taught me what I had much need to know,

To fret not at the weeds which grow so tall,
But haste with liberal hand my seed to sow.

I sought the heart-soil of my little child,
No longer now to rudely pull the weeds;
With God's own truth I plough'd the fruitless wild,
In faith and love I thickly sow'd the seeds.
And now my garden yields me fragrance sweet ;
From laden boughs I pluck the golden fruit;

My sickle now may find a harvest meet,

There scattering weeds find scarcely space for root.

441. CHILDREN: not 'lent to us.'

'GOD lent him and takes him,' you sigh;

Nay, there let me break with your pain: God's gen'rous in giving, say I, And the thing which He gives, I deny

That He ever can take back again. He is ours and for ever! Believe,

O father! O mother! look back To the first love's assurance! To give Means with God, not to tempt or deceive With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. He gives what He gives. Be content! He resumes nothing given, be sure ! God lend? Where the usurers lent⚫ In His temple, indignant He went

And scourged away all those impure. He lends not, but gives to the end,

As He loves to the end! If it seem That He draws back a gift, comprehend 'Tis to add to it rather, amend,

And finish it up to your dream,

Or keep, as a mother will toys

Too costly, though given by herself,— Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys, Kept over their heads on the shelf.

So look up, friends! You, who indeed

Have possess'd in your house a sweet piece
Of the heaven which men strive for, must need
Be more earnest than others are: speed
Where they loiter, persist when they cease.

You know how one angel smiles there :
Then weep not. 'Tis easy for you

To be drawn by a single gold hair

Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair,
To the safe place above us.

Adieu!

E. B. Browning.

444. CHILDREN. Thankless

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, To have a thankless child.-Shakespeare.

445. CHILDREN: their death not to be deplored.
A BUTTERFLY bask'd on an infant's grave
Where a lily had chanced to grow;
'Why art thou here with thy gaudy dye?
Where she of the bright and sparkling eye
Must sleep in the church-yard low.'
Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air,
And spoke from its shining track:

'I was a worm till I won my wings,
And she whom thou mourn'st, like a seraph sings;
Wouldst thou call the blest one back?'
Mrs Sigourney.

446. CHILDREN: their griefs.

449. CHILDREN: why Christ takes them. THE flock stood waiting by the rapid river,

And would not cross,

Although the shepherd kindly call'd them thither,
And banks of moss,

And fields of green, and verdant hills surrounded
The further shore;

The danger still their narrow vision bounded
Of crossing o'er.

He stretch'd his kindly arms, and gently call'd them-
They would not heed;

The deep, broad river's rapid stream appall'd them,
Though pleasant mead

And mountain fair beyond the darkling river
Rose to their view,

And in the distance, bright, unfading ever,
Were pastures new

The shepherd took a lamb, and safely bore it,
Within his arms

To where the pastures brightly gleam'd before it,
And all alarms

Were hush'd. The mother heard its voice of pleading,

And, crossing o'er,

The flock behind her follow'd in her leading, Unto the shore.

O stricken hearts, all torn with grief and bleeding,
A Saviour's voice

Ye would not hear, nor follow in His leading
Of your own choice.

So He takes your lambs into His safe keeping,
That eyes all dim

And dark with sorrow's clouds, and sad with weeping,
May look to Him,

And see beyond the darkly rolling river,

Those gone before,

And to the fields with verdure green for ever

Cross safely o'er.-E. N. Gunniron.

450. CHILDREN'S OFFERING. The

THE wise may bring their learning,
The rich may bring their wealth,
And some may bring their greatness,
And some bring strength and health.
We, too, would bring our treasures

To offer to the King;
We have no wealth or learning-

What shall we children bring?

We'll bring Him hearts that love Him;
We'll bring Him thankful praise,

And young souls meekly striving
To walk in holy ways.

And the e shall be the treasures

We offer to the King;

And these are gifts that even

The poorest child may bring.

We'll bring the little duties

We have to do each day; We'll try our best to please Him At home, at school, at play. And better are these treasures

To offer to our King

Than richest gifts without them;
Yet these a child may bring.
Now glory to the Father,

And glory ever be

To Christ, the loving Saviour,
Who lived, a child, like me;
And glory to the Spirit :

O Three in One-our King-
Accept, 'mid angels' praises,

The praise a child may bring.-C. A.

451. CHIVALRY.

'TIS said 'The age of chivalry is past,

That man's nobility is waning fast,

That hearts have colder grown, and much more tame,

That they regard not love, nor noble fame.'

But these are puny critics! vain and weak!
Who think not, care not, only that they speak
And the world hear them, and that shallow men
Shall echo their weak sentiments again.

For 'tis not so! with each revolving age
Man's custom changes, and on history's page

'Tis so recorded, and if man not now

Go cased in steel with helmet on his brow,
And wear a ribbon from his lady fair,
And joust in tournament at court and fair,
'Tis not that he is weaker, or less brave,
Less of the courtier, or more of the knave,
Less true in love, less noble in his mind,
Less strong of will, less of the man, mankind,
Less warlike when aroused by taunt or wrong.
Still the same creature; noble, true, and strong;
Temper'd by wisdom he has milder grown-
Learn'd of control what was to them unknown.
They strove with others on the bloody field,
Bravely and well-at death alone would yield;
We with ourselves must struggle, and the strife
Long is and bitter, ending but with life;
But if we win, ours is the nobler fame,
Better than earthly titles, land, or name-
Rest, peace, and happiness with God above,
In that fair land where all is light and love.