And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes, There is many a gem in the path of life, Better to weave in the web of life A bright and golden filling, And to do God's will with a ready heart, Than to snap the delicate, slender threads And then blame Heaven for the tangled ends, 297.-A SINGING LESSON. A nightingale made a mistake- And she hid from the moon. A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, "Oh, nightingale," cooed a dove, You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl? Only think of all you have done- From such a bird as you! The nightingale shyly took The nightingale did not care- And there she fixed her eyes. 298.-FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. H. W. LONGFELLOW. When the hours of Day are numbered, Wake the better soul that slumbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Shadows from the fitful firelight Then the forms of the departed He, the young and strong, who cherished By the roadside fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly, With those deep and tender eyes, O, though oft depressed and lonely, Such as these have lived and died! 299.-SACRED INFLUENCES. JOSEPH COOK. Looking around the globe to-day, we see an unbroken line of Christian influences in the near future, stretching from the Yosemite to the Sandwich Islands, to Australia, Japan, India, past the Suez Canal, thence to the Bosphorus, to Germany, to England, and then across that little brook we call the Atlantic, only two seconds wide now for electricity. There are no foreign lands. Christianity at this hour reads her Scriptures, and lifts up her anthems, in two hundred languages. One-half of the missionaries of the globe may be reached from Boston by telegraph in twenty-four hours. God is making commerce his missionary. It is incontrovertible that it was predicted ages ago, that a chosen man called yonder out of Ur of the Chaldees should become a chosen family, and this a chosen nation, and that in this nation should appear a chosen Supreme Teacher of the race, and that he should found a chosen church, and that, to his chosen people, with zeal for good works, should ultimately be given all nations and the isles of the sea. In precisely this order world-history has unrolled itself, and is now unrolling. No man can deny this. No man can meditate adequately on this without blanched cheeks. What are the signs of the times which I have recounted on this festal morn, but added waves in this fathomlessly mysterious gulf-current? We know it began with the ripple we call Abraham. It is now almost as broad as the Atlantic itself. What providence does, it from the first intends to do. We see what it has done. We know what it intended. It has - caused this gulf-current to flow in one direction two thousand, three thousand, four thousand years. Good tidings, this gulfcurrent, if we float with it!-good tidings which are to be to all peoples! A Power not ourselves makes for righteousness. It has steadily caused the fittest to survive, and thus has executed a plan of choosing a peculiar people. The survival of the fittest will ultimately give the world to the fit. Are we, in our anxiety for the future, to believe that this law will alter soon? or to fear that He whose will the law expresses, and who never slumbers nor sleeps, will change his plan to-morrow, or the day after? 300.-SELECTIONS IN VERSE. WINDING MY WATCH. I wind my watch in the low lamp-light, As the future were mine through this little key. Yet, winding my watch, I well may muse, How an hour will come of the low lamp-light When to wind my watch no need will be, Who will wind it after I cannot know, Days all whose moments were counted on, Bled slow at each stroke from my heart within; Throb, little hands, through your circling ways, But oh! somewhere in the high heaven set, THE GOOD GREAT MAN. "How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain ! Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ? Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? Three treasures,-love, and iight FOREVER. Those we love truly never die, Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, For death the pure life saves, And life all pure is love; and love can reach Well blest is he who has a dear one dead: The blessed sweetness of a loving breath Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years, For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears: She's thine unto the end. |