Watching for Papa.

He ceased, and suddenly the scene was changed,
And we were standing near a shining gate
Beauteous, and fair, and dazzling to behold.
Amazed I stood, for sounds of heavenly joy,
Thrilling my heart with ecstacy and bliss,
Were borne upon the breeze.

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"Why this rejoicing, why these heavenly sounds? "
I asked, while turning to my aged guide.
"These are the songs of angels who rejoice
O'er sinners turning from their evil ways,
And seeking shelter in the Ark of God."
And so amidst the glorious sound of haps,
And songs of angels standing round the throne,
I knelt enraptured, and I felt within

A feeling indescribable-a holy joy;

And while the blissful sounds were at their height And ransomed thousands sang their songs of praise Did I awake.

Weary no longer, I arose refreshed,

Filled with new life, new aims, and new desires,
And new resolves to battle with the world;
Resolved henceforth, the remnant of my days
To give to God's great service, and to fight
With all my powers against the host of hell.
Resolved to speak to sinners yet unsaved

Of all that Christ had done to save their souls,
How He had died, yea died that they might live,
How He had risen again, to intercede
With God, for all who felt a Saviour's need.

U'

WATCHING FOR PAPA.

P at the window are three little heads,

Lucy's, and Willie's, and year-old Fred's ;

What are they doing there all in a row,
Bobbing up, bobbing down, every way so?

Watching for papa to come home to tea,
Dear is their papa to all of the three,

Which pair of little eyes sparkling and bright,
Think you will be first to see him to-night?

Hark! who is that now whose footsteps they hear?
Far out are heads stretched to see him draw near!
Somebody's papa, perhaps, but not theirs-
Up at the three eager faces he stares.

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In a Crowd.

Back from the window bobs each little head,

66

Papa, make haste now," says dear baby Fred;
Now they all see him just coming in sight;

Hark, how they clap hands, and scream with delight.

Happy at last, not a moment to wait,

Laughing and shouting they rush to the gate.
Joyfully papa the little troop meets,

Each rosy mouth with glad kisses he greets.

Up in his strong arms he takes little Fred,
Willie and Lucy go dancing ahead;

Into the house now all four of them come,
Mamma stands smiling her bright welcome home.

Pulling and tugging they make him sit down,
One brings his slippers, another his gown,
Round him they hover and chatter with glee,
While they are waiting the summons to tea.
Little they know how their sweet loving ways
Comfort him after the wearisome days;
Arms full and lap full of dear little pets,
Now all his worries and cares he forgets.

'TIS

IS Saturday night and a motley crowd
Assembles in the busy street,

From every alley and bye-way near

Is heard the sound of hurrying feet. 'Tis nine o'clock-how dark the night!

The sickening sights are hid from view;

The only light-from window pane

Labelled" Old Tom" and "Mountain Dew."

What is it gathers round the door?
A crying child-'tis nothing more!

Ah stay! I see beside the child,
Grovelling on the dirty flags,
A womanly form it seems to be,

Clothed, alas, in unwomanly rags.
She's drunk, they say, and that's her child,
Sobbing so loudly o'er her there;
Poor child! thy piercing accents wild
Betray drink's horrid, fateful snare;

In a Crowd.

How strange good people cannot think
The evil's really in the drink!

Ah see, the mother gazes round,

66

Curses her child's "confounded din ;"
"Here, take this sixpence," she harshly cries,
Bring me a quartern of Hollands Gin-
Be sharp and don't stand snivelling so-
You'll get it there, at Mr. Beck's;
And speaking thus, she stands, and reels,
This shameful blot on her pure sex;
O God! how strange, good people think
There's nothing bad in poisonous drink!

The child, with withered, tearful face,
The poisonous draught reluctant brings,
The mother quaffs with boisterous glee
The draught-anon she wildly sings-
What cares she for her only child-

Its hungry look and naked form ;
No kindly hand or ample fare,

To save it from the bitter storm; Ah, 'tis the oft-told tale of woeGood friends, will you no pity show?

See now she falls upon the flags,
So drunk she cannot even say

A single word when told to move

Laid on a stretcher, she's borne away, And the crowd is running, laughing still; Each to the other the news they tell,

"A drunken woman, see there she goes!"

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And they point to the spot where down she fell. Thank heaven, her child, 'midst rude alarms, Sleeps peacefully in a policeman's arms.

O bear it on with tender care,

And let it lie upon your breast; Press gently on its aching limbs,

It soundly sleeps in quiet rest. Poor babe! a weary life is thine!

So soon to meet with want and woe; Heaven grant thee peace beyond the grave, Where ne'er shall come our country's foe. Oh! tenderly bear it, use it well;

Perchance 'twill find rest in yon prison cell.

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The True Man's Creed.

THE TRUE MAN'S CREED.

TRIVE to excel and take the lead

STR

In Christian love, and emulate
The just, the kind, in word and deed.
Oh, strive to be both good and great!
Toil with hands, and toil with brain-
Toil again, and toil again;

Ply the shuttle, and ply the quill-
Drive the plough with earnest will;
Forward in the good work rush,
Swiftly as the torrents gush.

With earnest heart do all you can
To urge the onward course of man
From the darkness black as night,
To paths that shine with dazzling light-
The glorious light of truth and love,
Which Heaven has sent us from above
To cheer the weary pilgrim's way,
As onward he from day to day,
Through this vale of sighs and tears,
Struggles for a term of years!

Strive to conquer every ill

By faith, and hope, and charity :
Keep the lead with dauntless will-
Brave misfortunes manfully.
Sheath the bloody sword of war;
Dwell in peace-from strife withdraw.
But if assailed, be glad to fight

For justice, freedom, truth, and right.
Traverse the land, and plough the wave;
Teach the savage-free the slave!

Pray Heaven that love and peace may reign,
That sin-with crime's engendered train-
Banished may be, and forced to go
To her own dwelling-place-below!
And oh, exalt the coming age

With science and with learning's page-
With all that is sublime in art-
With godliness, that angel part
Of low, down-fallen, long down-fallen,
Sin born, sorrowful men !

TEL

Home

HOME.

W. HOYLE.

ELL me not of martial bands,
Beat of drums and sound of rifle,
Roar of gun at war's commands;
These to me are but a trifle.

Tell me not of banquet hall,
Sumptuous feast or midnight revel;
These, like proud Belshazzar's fall,
Tempt the friends of lust and evil.

Tell me not of sordid wealth ;

Gold with all its glittering treasure
Cannot buy me precious health,
Cannot yield me purest pleasure.

Tell me not of worldly fame;
Giddy heights of vain ambition
Only mark an empty name,

Leave the soul without fruition.

Tell me not of pleasure's gate,

Where the thoughtless youth advances, Where the slaves of fashion wait,

Mingle in the songs and dances.

Tell me not of foreign lands,

Where the deep Niagara thunders,

Where Vesuvius burning stands,

Filling earth with mighty wonders

There's a spot that's near my heart,
All things temporal excelling, :

While on earth I take my part

May I love thee, mine own dwelling.

When I reach the open door

Voices sweet like bells are pealing "Welcome! welcome home once more! " Like soft zephyrs o'er me stealing.

Children gather round my knee,

Mary, Frank, and little Alice;

Soon I'm like a bird set free

From the world's deceit and malice.

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