INVITATION.

Farewell to quiet musings high,
To social chat while thee we ply;
We cannot part without a sigh,

My needle!

I'm growing old; I fain would see
What will the future woman be,

When she no longer needeth thee,

My needle!

And will her thoughts take wider scope?

Will higher spheres of duty ope?

We do not know! we can but hope,

My needle!

S.

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INVITATION.

WHENE'ER, by earthly cares oppressed, the weary spirit faints,

And, in the ear of Providence, it murmurs sad com

plaints

The welcome invitation comes, in loving language

drest:

"Come unto Me! ye weary, come, and I will give

you rest.'

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INVITATION.

"Come unto Me! all ye who toil; who heavy burdens

bear:

Come! and before My footstool cast your spirit-load

of care:

Take up My yoke and learn of Me: My ways are just and right:

For easy is My yoke to bear; My burden it is light!

"Come unto Me! all ye who mourn; your sorrows let Me share:

My strong right hand and outstretched arm are present everywhere;

Come! and be all your griefs assuaged, all doubts and fears repressed:

In Me, the meek and lowly heart, your souls shall find their rest."

Let not this loving summons fall unheeded at your

feet;

Go, cast yourselves in humble fear before the mercy

seat:

There's room for all-God's heart is vast!-broad the Redeemer's breast;

Go unto Him! ye weary, go! and He will give you

rest.

R. T.

THE LOST DAY.

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THE LOST DAY.

LOST! lost! lost!

A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock,

And graved in Paradise:

Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost-where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.

Yet to my hand 'twas given

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again:

I offer no reward

For till these heart-strings sever,
I know that Heaven's entrusted gift
Is reft away forever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled,
I'll see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead;
And when of scathe and loss
That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
What shall it answer there?

L. H. SIGOURNEY

WAITING.

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind or tide or sea;
rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know

my

face.

WAITING.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,

Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own, and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;

So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,

Can keep my own away from me.

J. BURROUGHS.

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