My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong-all that is past; I am ready not to do At last, at last. My half-day's work is done, I give a patient God My patient heart; And grasp his banner still, Though all the blue be dim; Lead after him. A The Cloud. CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on, O'er the still radiance of the lake below: Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, E'en in its very motion there was rest, While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll JOHN WILSON, THE BROOKLET. 439 The Brooklet. WEET brooklet, ever gliding, SWEE Now high the mountains riding, The lone vale now dividing, Whither away?— "With pilgrim course I flow, For oh, by high behest, To a bright abode of rest, In my parent Ocean's breast, Many a dark morass, Many a craggy mass, Thy feeble force must pass; Yet, yet delay!— "Though the marsh be dire and deep, Though the crag be stern and steep, On, on my course must sweep; I may not stay: For oh, be it east or west, To a home of glorious rest In the bright sea's boundless breast, The warbling bowers beside thee, "I taste of the fragrant flowers, But ceaseless still in quest Of that everlasting rest In my parent's boundless breast, Knowest thou that dread abyss? Is it a scene of bliss? Oh, rather cling to this,- Sweet brooklet, stay! "Oh, who shall fitly tell What wonders there may dwell? That world of mystery well May strike dismay: But I know 'tis my parent's breast; SIR ROBERT GRANT The Seas are Quiet. HE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er; THE So calm are we when passions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: That stand upon the threshold of the new. ANONYMOUS. MY AIN COUNTREE. 44: I My Ain Countree. AM far from my hame an' I'm weary often whiles For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's wel come smiles; I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree. The earth is flecked wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree. I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the King, To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring; Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree. My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair, Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast; For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, An' he carries them himself to his ain countree. He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again; But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be To gang at ony moment to my ain countree. So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait, ANONYMOUS. Ο Nearer Home. NE sweetly solemn thought I'm nearer my home to-day Than I ever have been before: Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be: Nearer the Great White Throne, Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer wearing the crown! But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Closer and closer my steps Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism. Father, perfect my trust! Strengthen my feeble faith ! Let me feel as I would, when I stand On the shore of the river of Death. |