Green Pastures.

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THE CHILD'S DESIRE.

THINK, when I read that sweet story of old,
When Jesus was here among men,

How he called little children as lambs to his fold,

I should like to have been with them then.

I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,
That his arms had been thrown around me,

And that I might have seen his kind look when he said, "Let the little ones come unto me."

But still to his footstool in prayer I may go,
And ask for a share in his love;

And if I thus earnestly seek him below,
I shall see him and hear him above.

In that beautiful place he has gone to prepare
For all that are washed and forgiven;
And many dear children are gathering there,
"For of such is the kingdom of heaven."

MRS. LUKE.

THE GREEN PASTURES.

WALKED in a field of fresh clover this morn, Where lambs played so merily under the trees, Or rubbed their soft coats on a naked old thorn, Or nibbled the clover, or rested at ease.

And under the hedge ran a clear water-brook,
To drink from, when thirsty, or weary with play;

And so gay did the daisies and buttercups look,
That I thought little lambs must be happy all day.

And when I remember the beautiful psalm

That tells about Christ and his pastures so green,
I know he is willing to make me his lamb,
And happier far than the lambs I have seen.

If I drink of the waters, so peaceful and still,
That flow in his field, I for ever shall live;
If I love him, and seek his commands to fulfil,
A place in his sheepfold to me he will give.

The lambs are at peace in the fields when they play, The long summer's day in contentment they spend; But happier I, if in God's holy way

I try to walk always, with Christ for my Friend.

MRS. M. L. DUNCAN.

RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

HESE eyes that were half closed in death,
Now dare the noontide blaze:

My voice, that scarce could speak my wants,

Now hymns JEHOVAH'S praise.

How pleasant to my feet, unused
To tread the daisied ground!
How sweet to my unwonted ear

The streamlet's lulling sound!

Mother, what is Death?

How soft the first breath of the breeze

That on my temples played!
How sweet the woodland evening song,
Full floating down the glade!

But sweeter far the lark that soars
Through morning's blushing ray;
For then unseen, unheard, I join
His lonely, heavenward lay.

And sweeter still that infant voice,
With all its artless charms;-
'Twas such as he that Jesus took,
And cherished in his arms.

O Lord, my God! all these delights

I to thy mercy owe;

For thou hast raised me from the couch

Of sickness, pain, and woe.

'Twas thou that from the whelming wave, My sinking soul redeemed;

'Twas thou that o'er destruction's storm

A calming radiance beamed.

GRAHAME.

MOTHER, WHAT IS DEATH?

m

OTHER, how still the baby lies!

I cannot hear his breath;
I cannot see his laughing eyes—

They tell me this is death.

379

My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed;
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me he is dead.

They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now;

That God will bless him in the skies-
Oh, mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,
And laid upon the casement here,—
A withered worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

Look at the chrysalis, my love,—
An empty shell it lies;

Now raise your wond'ring glance above,
To where yon insect flies!"

"Oh, yes, mamma! how very gay

Its wings of starry gold!

And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

Oh, mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,

On golden wings to range,—

The Best Offering.

Renew my will from day to day;

Blend it with Thine; and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done!

Then, when on earth I breathe no more,
The prayer, oft mixed with tears before,
I'll sing upon a happier shore,

Thy will be done!

381

CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT.

THE BEST OFFERING.

ORD, what offering shall we bring, 雅

At thine altar when we bow?

Hearts, the pure, unsullied spring

Whence the kind affections flow;

Soft compassion's feeling soul,

By the melting eye expressed;

Sympathy, at whose control

Sorrow leaves the wounded breast.

Willing hands to lead the blind

Bind the wounded, feed the poor;

Love, embracing all our kind,
Charity, with liberal store.

Teach us, O thou heavenly King!
Thus to show our grateful mind;
Thus the accepted offering bring,-

Love to thee and all mankind.

JANE TAYLOR.