My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong-all that is past;

I am ready not to do

At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,
And this is all my part-

I give a patient God

My patient heart;

And grasp his banner still,

Though all the blue be dim;
These stripes as well as stars

Lead after him.

A

The Cloud.

CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below: Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

E'en in its very motion there was rest,

While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,

And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

JOHN WILSON,

THE BROOKLET.

439

The Brooklet.

WEET brooklet, ever gliding,

SWEE

Now high the mountains riding, The lone vale now dividing,

Whither away?—

"With pilgrim course I flow,
Or in summer's scorching glow,
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow,
Nor stop, nor stay:

For oh, by high behest,

To a bright abode of rest,

In my parent Ocean's breast,
I hasten away!"

Many a dark morass,

Many a craggy mass,

Thy feeble force must pass;

Yet, yet delay!—

"Though the marsh be dire and deep, Though the crag be stern and steep, On, on my course must sweep;

I may not stay:

For oh, be it east or west,

To a home of glorious rest

In the bright sea's boundless breast,
I hasten away!"

The warbling bowers beside thee,
The laughing flowers that hide thee,
With soft accord they chide thee,-
Sweet brooklet, stay!

"I taste of the fragrant flowers,
I respond to the warbling bowers,
And sweetly they charm the hours
Of my winding way;

But ceaseless still in quest

Of that everlasting rest

In my parent's boundless breast,
I hasten away!"

Knowest thou that dread abyss?

Is it a scene of bliss?

Oh, rather cling to this,-

Sweet brooklet, stay!

"Oh, who shall fitly tell

What wonders there may dwell?

That world of mystery well

May strike dismay:

But I know 'tis my parent's breast;
There held I must needs be blest,
And with joy to that promised rest
I hasten away!"

SIR ROBERT GRANT

The Seas are Quiet.

HE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er;

THE

So calm are we when passions are no more!

For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Concealed that emptiness which age descries:
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

ANONYMOUS.

MY AIN COUNTREE.

44:

I

My Ain Countree.

AM far from my hame an' I'm weary often whiles

For the longed-for hame-bringing, an' my Father's wel come smiles;

I'll ne'er be fu' content until my een do see

The gowden gates o' heaven, an' my ain countree.

The earth is flecked wi' flow'rs, mony-tinted, fresh and gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my Father made them sae; But these sights and these soun's will as naething be to me, When I hear the angels singing in my ain countree.

I've his gude word of promise, that some gladsome day, the King,

To his ain royal palace his banish'd hame will bring;

Wi' een an' wi' heart running oure we shall see "The King in his beauty," an' our ain countree.

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae been sair,
But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair;
His bluid has made me white, his hand shall wipe mine ee,
When he brings me hame at last to my ain countree.

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest,

I wud fain be ganging noo unto my Saviour's breast;

For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me,

An' he carries them himself to his ain countree.

He's faithfu' that has promised, he'll surely come again;
He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what hour I dinna ken;

But he bids me still to watch, an' ready ay to be

To gang at ony moment to my ain countree.

So I'm watching aye an' singing o' my hame as I wait,
For the soun'ing o' his footsteps this side the gowden gate.
God gie his grace to ilka ane wha listens noo to me,
That we a' may gang in gladness to our ain countree.

ANONYMOUS.

Ο

Nearer Home.

NE sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er-

I'm nearer my home to-day

Than I ever have been before:

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be:

Nearer the Great White Throne,
Nearer the jasper sea:

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;

Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer wearing the crown!

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,
Is the silent unknown stream
That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm;

Closer Death to my lips

Presses the awful chrism.

Father, perfect my trust!

Strengthen my feeble faith !

Let me feel as I would, when I stand

On the shore of the river of Death.