"Thy Will be Done."

They know how well I love them,

And what have they to give,

Save those sweet flowers that, like your child,
Have little time to live!

For my sake do not blame them,
Do not chide them, mother dear;
If my life would buy their freedom
I'd not wish to linger here.
But I pray my fleeting senses
Yet a little time may hold,

That I may bring this stricken flock
Within the Shepherd's fold.

'Tis vain-my time is coming,
Bid them stand before me now,
And, mother, take these shining locks,
And cut them from my brow;
I'll give a parting tress to each,
That when my soul shall flee,
They'll think of little Eva's words,
And still remember me,

87

L

"Thy Will be Done."

ELIZA COOK.

ET the scholar and divine

Tell us how to pray aright;

Let the truths of Gospel shine

With their precious hallow'd light;
But the prayer a mother taught
Is to me a matchless one;

Eloquent and spirit-fraught

Are the words--" Thy will be done.”

Though not fairly understood,
Still those words, at evening hour,
Imply some Being great and good,
Of mercy, majesty, and power.
Bending low on infant knee,

And gazing on the setting sun,
I thought that orb His home must be,
To whom I said-" Thy will be done."

I have search'd the sacred page,
I have heard the godly speech,
But the lore of saint or sage
Nothing holier can teach.
Pain has wrung my spirit sore,

But my soul the triumph won,
When the anguish that I bore

Only breathed-" Thy will be done."

They have served in pressing need,
Have nerved my heart in every task,
And howsoe'er my breast may bleed,
No other balm of prayer I ask.
When my whiten'd lips declare

Life's last sands have almost run,

May the dying breath they bear

Murmur forth-" Thy will be done.”

Christmas.

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.

NE cannot choose but love the bells,

ON

With their harmonious din

Those speaking bells, whose falls and swells Ring merry Christmas in :

Christmas.

They sound like angel voices sent
From some serener sphere,

Singing from out the firmament-
"The Prince of Peace is here."

"Good-will fulfil, fulfil good-will,”
Their glad lips seem to say-
"The best ye can for brother man,"
Goes on the peaceful lay;
And shall we scorn such fancy-songs,
If fancy songs they be-

Which lift us up from woes and wrongs,
And bid our hearts be free?

No! rouse to life the laughing blaze,
Draw round it every one;
Away, sad thoughts of former days,
Cares of to-day, begone;

Ah, now ye wear a cheerful look,
A bright and earnest grace,
Even the old clock in the nook
Trims up its burnish'd face.

Now for an anthem, such as rung
In halls and homes of old,
Let every soul to joy be strung,

Each voice flow free and bold;

Lo! as ye sing, each gentle thing

Stirs at the tuneful call,

For the berries that blush 'mid the holly bush
Are trembling upon the wall.

Dear Christmas days, how fair ye seem,

Calm, holy, and sublime!

Footprints of angels, how ye gleam

Along the path of Time!

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Footprints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow,

By worldly storms unriven,

That we may mark them as we go,
And find our way to Heaven.

A Hundred Years.

ANNA BLACKWELL.

A HUNDRED years, and still and low

Will lie my sleeping head;

A hundred years, and grass will grow
Above my dreamless bed.

The grass will grow; the brook will run;
Life still as fresh and fair

Will spring in beauty 'neath the sun;
Where will my place be? where ?

A hundred years! some briefer space
My life perchance had spann'd;
But ere they lapse my feet must pass
Within the silent land.

While on the plains, the lasting hills,
In shadow and in shine,

Still dial Time's slow chronicles;
What record will be mine?

A hundred years! O yearning heart!

O spirit true and brave!

With Doubt and Death thou hast no part,

No kindred with the grave!

For we shall last as lasts the Earth,

And live as lives the Sun;

And we shall know that Death is Birth

Ere a hundred years have run!

Dh, Teach Me to Love Thee.

T. MOORE.-Air, Haydn.

OH, teach me to love Thee, to feel what Thou art,

Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart

Shall all other passions disown;

Like some pure temple that shines apart,

Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and sorrow, through praise and through blame, Thus still let me, living or dying the same,

In Thy service bloom and decay,

Like some lone altar, whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away.

Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and death,
On Thee let my spirit rely-

Like some rude dial, that fix'd on earth

Still looks for its light from the sky.

The Parting Spirit.

W. E. STAITE.-Music by W. M. Rooke.

'AREWELL! oh, farewell!

FA

Though in secret ye weep

Dark tears o'er the grave
Where in silence I sleep.
The night breeze that murmurs

My soul's parting knell,
Shall waft me from sorrow-

Farewell! oh, farewell!