So Heaven alone shall ever satisfy,

And God's own light be ever light enough

To guide the purified, ennobled eye

Toward the smooth which lies beyond the rough.

There will be something when these clouds skim by-
A bounteous yielding from the fruitful past;
Sweet peace and rest upon the pathway lie,
E'en though but death and flowers at the last.

293-A MORNING HYMN.

BY JOHN MILTON.

These are thy glorious works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how wond'rous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lower works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing; ye, in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first. Him last, Him midst, and without end.

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou falls't;
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st,
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.

Ve mists and exhalations that now rise

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise!
Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines.
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.

Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds.
That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise;
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, Universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

294. THE CHILD IN THE JUDGMENT SEAT.

MRS. E. R. CHARLES.

Where hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart, That thy brow is burdened and sad?

The Master's work may make weary feet,

But it leaves the spirit glad.

Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost,
Or scorched with the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?

"No pleasant garden toils were mine,

I have sate on the judgment seat,
Where the Master sits at eve, and calls
The children around his feet."

How camest thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, who set thee there?
'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.

"I climbed on the judgment seat myself;
I have sate there alone all day,

66

For it grieved me to see the children around,

Idling their life away.

They wasted the Master's precious seed,

They wasted the precious hours;

They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruit,
And they trampled the sweet meek flowers."
And what didst thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, what didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend for thy care?

"Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, But they left me there forlorn ;

My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn.'

Ah! the judgment seat was not for thee,
The servants were not thine;

And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame, See farther than thine or mine.

The voice that shall sound there at eve, sweetheart,
Will not strive nor cry to be heard;

It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts,
And none will resist its word.

"Should I see the Master's treasures lost,
The gifts that should feed his poor,

And not lift my voice (be it as weak as it may)
And not be grievéd sore?"

Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart,

Wait till the evening falls;

The Master is near, and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.

But how fared thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Whilst thou sat on the judgment seat?
Who watered thy roses, and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?

"Nay! that is saddest of all to me,

That is saddest of all!

My vines are trailing, my roses are parched,
My lilies droop and fall."

Go back to thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Go back till the evening falls,

And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone;

Perchance he whose plot is next to thine,
Will see it, and mend his own,

And the next shall copy his, sweetheart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces his coming will greet.
Then shall thy joy be full, sweetheart,
In thy garden so fair to see,
In the Master's voice of praise to all,
In a look of his own for thee.

295,-FRETTING JENNIE.

ANONYMOUS.

Little Jennie, fretful, sitting in a tree,
Worried at the buzzing of a bumble-bee.
Said she had a headache, wished it would be still,
Knew it buzzed on purpose to defy her will.

Buzzing bee was happy, busy at its work,
Gathering stores of honey-never thought to shirk;
Never thought of Jennie fretting in the tree,
It was such a happy, busy little bee.

Jennie grew more fretful when it answered not,
Said 'twas really hateful-that was what she thought.
Still the bee kept buzzing, glad its sphere to fill,
Discontented Jennie may be fretting still.

Are there not some Jennies, boys and girls, you know
Who to fret at others are not slack or slow?
Forth to duty, children! like the busy bee,
Minding not cross Jennie, on her fretting tree.

296. THE BRIGHT SIDE.

There is many a rest in the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it,
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it!
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,

And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth,
The grass is green and the flowers are bright,
Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted!
There was never a night without a day,
Or an evening without a morning;

And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jeweled crown,
Or the miser's hoarded treasure:

It may be the love of a little child,
Or a mother's prayers to Heaven;
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks,
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life

A bright and golden filling,

And to do God's will with a ready heart,
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate, slender threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then blame Heaven for the tangled ends,
And sit, and grieve, and wonder.

297.-A SINGING LESSON.
JEAN INGELOW.

A nightingale made a mistake-
She sang a few notes out of tune-
Her heart was ready to break,

And she hid from the moon.
She wrung her claws, poor thing,
But was far too proud to weep;
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face.
She knew they had heard her song,
She felt them snicker and sneer;
She thought that this life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.

"Oh, nightingale," cooed a dove,
"Oh, nightingale, what's the use?
You, a bird of beauty and love,
Why behave like a goose?
Don't skulk away from our sight
Like a common contemptible fowl;

You bird of joy and delight,

Why behave like an owl?