F

The Return of the Dove.

Genesis viii. 8-12.)

DUET.

J. E. CARPENTER.

BOTH VOICES.

ORTH from the ark the sacred dove

Flew o'er the deep profound,

The vast expanse of sky above,
The watery waste around!

FIRST VOICE.

Did it return, that bird of peace?
Tell me, my mother dear;

Or, panting for its own release,
Sought it another sphere?

SECOND VOICE.

No, no, my child! the dove came back,
It had not where to rest;

The waters wild had left no track
O'er all the earth's wide breast.

BOTH VOICES.

Poor bird! it flew with weary wing
To seek its own fair bowers,
But sought in vain a leaf to bring
Of one of earth's sweet flowers.

FIRST VOICE.

Did it go forth again, set free
By the dear patriarch's hand,
And then for ever, ever flee

To its loved native land?

The Return of the Dove.

SECOND VOICE.

No, no, my child! the God above,

Who could the flowers restore,

Sent back a token by the dove

That they should bloom once more.

BOTH VOICES.

Sweet bird! it came on joyous wing,
To tell of fruits and flowers,
A harbinger of coming spring,
And joys that since are ours.

FIRST VOICE.

Went it not forth yet once again
To woo the sun and breeze,
To nestle in some woodland glen,
Hid by the summer trees?

SECOND VOICE.

Yes, yes, my child! th' imprison'd dove,-
Again it was set free,

And earth has since been crown'd with love,
And peace and liberty.

BOTH VOICES.

Sweet dove! with peace upon its wing

It sought the earth's green bowers, And ever since the blessed spring Makes glad this world of ours.

59

Kind Words.

F. G. LEE.

KIND words are like the morning sun, that gilds the

opening flower;

Kind words are like the blessings spread by every summer shower;

They light the heart with sunny beams—they shed a fulgent

ray,

And cheer the weary pilgrim, as he wanders on his way.

If you have naught to give the poor when winter's snowclouds loom,

Oh, ne'er forget that one sweet smile may chase away their gloom!

Remember, too, that one kind word may blunt Affliction's

dart,

And softly fall, like healing balm, upon the wounded heart.

Let us hear none but gentle words—no tales of dismal strife, But only kind things whisper, as you tread this vale of life; Then try, by every word and glance, the suff ring to beguile, And watch them, when you speak kind words, how happily they smile!

I

Sleep.

ELIZA COOK.

'VE mourn'd the dark long night away

With bitter tears and vain regret,

Till, grief-sick, at the break of day

I've left a pillow cold and wet.

Let Me Rest.

I've risen from a restless bed,

Sad, trembling, spiritless, and weak, With all my brow's young freshness fled, With pallid lips and bloodless cheek.

Hard was the task for aching eyes

So long to wait, so long to weep;

But well it taught me how to prize
That precious matchless blessing, sleep.

I've counted every chiming hour,

While languishing 'neath ceaseless pain; While fever raged with demon power,

To drink my breath and scorch my brain.

And oh what earnest words were given!
What wild imploring prayers arose!
How eagerly I ask'd of Heaven

A few brief moments of repose!

Oh! ye who drown each passing night
In peaceful slumber, calm and deep,
Fail not to kneel at morning's light

And thank your God for health and sleep.

Let Me Rest.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

E does well who does his best:

HE

Is he weary? let him rest:
Brothers! I have done my best.
I am weary-let me rest.

61

After toiling oft in vain,
Baffled, yet to struggle fain;
After toiling long, to gain
Little good with mickle pain;

Let me rest-but lay me low,
Where the hedgeside roses blow;
Where the little daisies grow,
When the winds a-maying go;

Where the footpath rustics plod; Where the breeze-bow'd poplars nod; Where the old woods worship God; Where His pencil paints the sod;

Where the wedded throstle sings;
Where the young bird tries his wings;
Where the wailing plover swings
Near the runlet's rushy springs;

Where, at times, the tempest's roar,
Shaking distant sea and shore,
Still will rave old Barnesdale o'er
To be heard by me no more!

There, beneath the breezy west,
Tired and thankful, let me rest,
Like a child, that sleepeth best
On its gentle mother's breast.