'Mong the people who hung on His teaching,
Or waited His touch and His word;
Through the row of proud Pharisees list'ning,-
She pressed to the feet of the Lord.

"Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master,"
Said Peter, "with children like these?
Seest not how, from morning till evening,
He teacheth, and healeth disease?"
Then Christ said, "Forbid not the children;
Permit them to come unto me;"

And He took in His arms little Esther,
And Rachel He set on His knee.

And the heavy heart of the mother
Was lifted all earth-care above,
As He laid His hands on the brothers,
And blessed them with tenderest love;
As He said of the babes in His bosom,
"Of such are the kingdom of heaven;"
And strength for all duty and trial,
That hour to her spirit was given.

15.—TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

GERALD MASSEY.

High hopes that burned like stars sublime,
Go down i' the heavens of freedom,
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow; We walk the wilderness to-dayThe promised land to-morrow! Our birds of song are silent now, There are no flowers blooming, Yet life holds in the frozen bough,

And freedom's spring is coming;
And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow:
And our good bark, aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow!

Through all the long, long night of years
The people's cry ascendeth,

And earth is wet with blood and tears:

But our meek sufferance endeth!

The few shall not forever sway

The many moil in sorrow;

The powers of hell are strong to-day,

But Christ shall rise to-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes
With smiling futures glisten!

For, lo! our day bursts up the skies;
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world rolls freedom's radiant way,
And ripens with her sorrow;

Keep heart! who bear the Cross to-day,
Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!

O youth, flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire

Our yearning opes the portal;
And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow-
We'll sow the golden grain to-day,
The harvest reap to-morrow!

A. A. PROCTER.

Strive: yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day

Will not fade when you think to grasp it,

And melt in your hand away;

But another and holier treasure,

You would now perchance disdain,

Will come when your toil is over,

And pay you for all your pain.

Wait: yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now

Will not come with its radiance vanished,

And a shadow upon its brow;

Yet, far through the misty future,

With a crown of starry light,

An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight.

H

Pray: though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears,
May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not that you long for,
But choicer, will come one day;
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray.

17.-OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

WILLIAM KNOX.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her, and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been ;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen-
We drink the same stream and we view the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold,
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-.
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

18. THE STUDENT.

"Poor fool!" the base and soulless worldling cries,
To waste his strength for nought,-to blanch his cheek,
And bring pale Death upon him in his prime.
Why did he not to pleasure give his days,-

His nights to rest,—and live while live he might?"
What is't to live? To breathe the vital air,
Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away
Existence? Never! this is living death.
Shall man, once formed to be creation's lord,
Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed
With God's own signet, sink below the brute?
Forbid it, Heaven! it cannot, must not be!

Oh! when the mighty God from nothing brought
This universe,-when at His word the light
Burst forth, the sun was set in heaven,-

And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last,
The noble work of all, from dust He framed
Our bodies in His image,-when He placed

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Within its temple shrine of clay, the soul,-
The immortal soul-infused by His own truth,
Did He not show, 'tis this which gives to man
His high prerogative? Why then declare
That he who thinks less of his mortal frame,
And lives a spirit, even in this world,
Lives not as well,-lives not as long, as he
Who drags out years of life, without one thought,-
One hope,-one wish beyond the present hour?
How shall we measure life? Not by the years,—
The months, the days,-the moments that we pass
On earth. By him whose soul is raised above
Base worldly things,--whose heart is fixed in heaven,-
His life is measured by that soul's advance,--
The enlargement of its powers,-the expanded field
Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys, with high and heavenly hopes.
When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber,—when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun,—each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round,—and that again
Revolving round another sun,—while all
Suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along,
In one majestic, ever-onward course,
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,-
Oh! think you then the undebaséd soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,—to rest?

No! in the solemn stillness of the night,

It soars from earth,—it dwells in angels' homes,—
It hears the burning song,-the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaven with joy !
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius; where, in never-dying light,
It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;
Or where it burns with rav more mild, more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy,-of bliss, so pure, that earth
May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble,—and his eye
Lose its bright lustre,-till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!