I sing unto the common, bleak and bare,
My gladsome tune;

I sweeten and refresh the languid air
In droughty June."

"Not to myself alone,”

O man, forget not thou, earth's honour'd priest !
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart,
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part:
Chiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast,
Play not the niggard, spurn thy native clod,
And self disown;

Live to thy neighbour, live unto thy God,
Not to thyself alone!

UPO

The Two Streams.

JAMES SHIRLEY HIBBERD.

PON a leafy mountain height two streams came gushing forth,

One bubbled from the sunny south, the other from the north; One leap'd and sparkled joyously as clear as summer sky, The purple flood the other roll'd went slowly creeping by.

Beside the one green rushes grew, and blushing buds and flowers,

Beside the other, men were chain'd in poison-breathing bowers;

One welcomed sweet wild birds to sing their hymns of praise and joy,

The other breathed the breath of sin and tempted to destroy.

Consider the Ravens.

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The one went sparkling cheerily beneath the noonday sun, And spread around life, health, and peace, where'er it chanced

to run;

The other was the stream of death with sorrow on its tide, And whoso stoop'd to drink therein must Satan's curse abide.

The stream which gave such joy to all leap'd from a rocky well;

The vineyard sent the other forth to work a deathlike spell; They both have flow'd for countless years adown the steeps

of time;

One spreading grief and wickedness, the other bliss sublime.

Consider the Ravens.

(Luke xii. 27, 28.)

DUET.

J. E. CARPENTER.

CHILD.

'ELL me, O mother! if I should store

TEL

This precious piece of the earth's bright ore?

Say is it good to hoard and save,

And sleep, at last, in a rich man's grave?

MOTHER.

Consider the ravens, my gentle boy,

They sow not, nor reap, yet they employ
The tenderest care of the bounteous hand
That scatters their food o'er the barren land.

BOTH.

It is not good to hoard and save;
The covetous man has no honour'd grave.
'Tis better to part with the precious ore,
Than cling in pride to a useless store.

CHILD.

Is it not well to treasure up

Gold that will fill the mantling cup?
Wealth that will food and raiment give,
And bring the honours for which men live?

MOTHER.

Consider the lilies, my darling child,

They toil not nor spin in the greenwood wild; And what is thy glory to one of these,

To God who clothes both the fields and trees?

BOTH.

Life is more precious than hoarded gold,

Or the food and raiment that's bought and sold, But our lives on earth must so order'd be

That they'll lead to a bright eternity.

The Kingliest Kings.

GERALD MASSEY.

O! ye who in a noble work

H°

Win scorn, as flames draw air,

And, in the way where lions lurk,

God's image bravely bear,

Though trouble-tried and torture-torn,

The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.

Hope and Love.

Life's glory, like the bow in heaven,
Still springeth from the cloud!

And soul ne'er soar'd the starry seven
But Pain's fire-chariot rode;

They've battled best who've boldliest borne:
The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.

The martyr's fire-crown on the brow

Doth into glory burn:

And tears that from Love's torn heart flow
To pearls of spirit turn!

And dear heart-hopes in pangs are born;
The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.

As Beauty in Death's cerement shrouds,
And stars bejewel night,

God's splendour lives in dim heart-clouds,
And suffering nurseth might;

The murkiest hour brings forth the morn:
The kingliest Kings are crown'd with thorn.

H

Hope and Love.

ANONYMOUS.

EART! take courage, upward strive,

Higher still, and higher;

Faint not, blanch not, shrink not now,

Heaven is ever nigher!

Higher aims, and higher hopes,

Be our great endeavour.

See the glorious guerdon's near,
Love enduring ever!

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On! and reck not of the toil,
Nor of burthen mind thee;
Look up! its shadow let the sun
For ever cast behind thee.

Angels beckon, saints applaud,
Nobly have we striven;
Triumph now! the prize is gain'd
Of endless Love in Heaven.

I

God's-Acre.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial ground God's-Acre !
It is just ;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they have garner'd in their hearts,
Their bread of life; alas, no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again,
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloom'd on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!