I just had left the dying-bed of one who once had been
A wanderer from the Saviour's fold in the gloomy paths of

sin

A wreck of sweetness and of grace, a shade of beauty

now,

Though Death had set its awful seal too plainly on her

brow.

Oh, surely life to her had been a life of guilt and tears, Of blighted hopes and shatter'd dreams, and storms of guilty fears!

But, on a sudden, in the midst of youth and pleasure's

prime,

The icy blast of death blew keen athwart that summer

clime.

The world's allurements shrivell'd then, like leaves in wind

and frost,

And all its lying blandishments their sometime glory lost. Earth trembled, and the sky was gloom, and all within was wild,

And Death full quickly now would claim its own unhappy child.

Stay, list!

a sudden ray from heaven gleam'd in upon

her cell:

"The Saviour"-eagerly she caught the accents as they

fell

"The Saviour came to save the lost-Jesus for sinners

died."

"For sinners?-Oh, the worst am I of sinners," she re

plied.

“Then cast on Him thy load of guilt — He bids thee come

and live."

"I cannot, yet I would," she cried; "Lord, hear me, Lord, forgive!"

It was not peace, it was not light, nor was it all despair,
And pointing her to Jesus still, I left her after prayer.

It was not sunshine, nor the joy of heaven's own glorious bow

Yet surely one true little gleam of mercy amid woe,
One fragmentary rainbow-spot that might grow brighter

yet,

And faintly promised better things before the sun was set.

Banningham, 1848.

V.

IS IT WELL?

NEVER man spake like Him.

His words of power

Fell like the healing dews of heaven. His looks Breathed love and round Him eagerly there press'd

The sick in body and the sick at heart.

Some clung in painful anguish to His hand;
Some cast themselves before His sacred feet;
Some cried aloud for mercy; and His grace
Was free to all. He cast out none who came.
But some there were of timid trembling faith,
Who stole behind Him in the press, and touch'd
The border of His garment; and there went
Such virtue from Him, all who touch'd were heal'd.
The feeblest touch was life. And He is still

Unchangeably, eternally the same.

Then weep not for thy well-beloved, nor ask
Mistrustful, "Is it well with him I mourn?"
Was he not clinging to the Saviour's hand?
Was he not holding to the Saviour's feet?

1863.

Was he not hanging on the Saviour's grace?
Is love still anxious? Laid he not his finger
Upon the border of the Saviour's robe?
That trembling touch was everlasting life.

VI.

THE UNKNOWN TO-MORROW.

So he is gone: it was but yesterday
He spent in piloting his cumbrous car
Through crowds of men and tangled thoroughfares
Of this great city. Evening came, and night;

And having done his duty he return'd,

Worn out and weary, to his quiet home.

There the sweet love of wife, a daughter's care, children sleeping,

The soft low breath of younger

And thoughts, that wander'd to his absent boy,
Refresh'd him. On his knees he sank in prayer,
Short, earnest, true,
and laid him down to rest.

It was his last day's work.

Where is he now?

Where is he? Suddenly the message came;

1863.

And angels bare him on their wings of love
Into his Saviour's presence. No more toil;
No more the din and discord of the world;
No more the weary warfare of the heart.
He sleeps in Jesus: on his head a crown
Of glory; in his hand a harp of praise;
And music of the blessed spirits, who walk
The golden streets, about him echoing joy
And welcoming another traveller home.

VII.

THE THREE BIRTHDAYS.

TO THE MEMORY OF ONE WHO, IN BLINDNESS AND SUFFERING, BUT IN THE FULL ASSURANCE OF FAITH, SAID, A FEW HOURS BEFORE HER DEATH, THAT SHE HAD ALWAYS HEARD THAT THREE BIRTHDAYS WERE OURS: OUR NATURAL BIRTHDAY, OUR SPIRITUAL BIRTHDAY, AND OUR BIRTHDAY INTO GLORY: AND THAT SHE WAS SURE THE LAST WAS THE

BRIGHTEST AND THE BEST.

Joy for thee, new-born child of heaven! once there was

joy on earth,

What time from eager lip to lip ran tidings of thy birth,