Think not, my child, life's stream will always flow so bright, Or pleasure's sunny beam will never lose its light;

Think not you ne'er will see life's scene with winter bound, Or from its brown and faded tree the leaves all dropping round:

God changes weal to woe, and sunny things makes dim, Lest, loving earth below, your heart be turned from Him; He bids affliction lower to break your thoughtless pride, And makes you by each wintry hour draw closer to His side.

Through pathways dark and strange, through sorrow and through gloom,

He leads you to a realm of light beyond the silent tomb; And by each gloomy night He sends you kindly warning To wait the everlasting light that cometh in the morning.

Oh wait, until the spring in those unfading bowers
Its changeless bloom shall bring, and never dying flowers!
And though thy pathway wend through ways now dark
and dim,

You know your Lord is at the end,—and all is light with

Him.

R. W. EVANS.

The Cuckoo.

"Where self and pleasure are but one,
That soul is morally undone!"

F. W. FABER.

W

ITHOUT a home, without a nest,
No mate to call his own,

With no parental love possessed,

A creature all alone,—

He tells of selfish pleasures

That love abroad to roam,

Where the heart can have no treasures, Because it knows no home.

This world, my child, hath many a voice That calls to idle pleasure,

And bids the thoughtless heart rejoice

In hours of selfish leisure;
That calls to passing pleasure, seen
In outward things alone,

And not in that which dwells within,
Where peace is sought and won.

The holy peace of spirits blest,
Who, sin and guilt forgiven,
Have learned in patient hope to rest
Fast by the gate of heaven;

And there are watching day and night
In longing love, for Him

Who'll open wide those portals bright,
And call His chosen in.

This world can never meet the need
Of souls that long for bliss;
Nor can its shallow fountains feed
A course of love like this.

And though they speak of flowerets strewn
Across your path,-ere long,

Like the hoarse cuckoo heard in June,

They'd be a weary song.

R. W. EVANS.

Song of the Goldfinch.

SING to my mate on her mossy nest

Beneath the chestnut spray;

And I strive to gladden her anxious breast With my merry and simple lay :

For she feels no fear

When I am near,

And oh, as each soothing note I try,

How soft is the glance of her hazel eye.

And I sing to Him in my thankful mirth
Who blesses me with life and voice,
And sent me to fly o'er the teeming earth,
And in its fruits rejoice:

Whose hand is nigh

Where'er I fly,

Holding me up, as the pinion light
Beats the soft air in its feeble flight.

In the warm nest as I naked lay
He clothed my callow breast,
And in a cap of scarlet gay
My downy head He dressed.

On my wings He rolled

A bar of gold,

And He sent me forth, when all was done,
With my glittering vest in the summer sun.

I fled far and wide, rejoicing and free,
With my food all scattered around,
From the seed that grows on the lofty tree
To the weed upon the ground;

For the tall fir's cone,

And the thistle down,

And the groundsel mean, with its feathered seed,

All wait in their turn to supply my need.

Thus merry within the chestnut grove

To Him my voice I raise;

And full in the depths of its thankful tone, My heart beats forth in praise.

Through the dark night

I am in His sight,

And all day long is His love display'd
O'er the tiny bird His hand hath made.

There is one that watches for you, my child,
As stretched in sleep you lie,

And follows by day your motions wild,
With love's unwearied eye.

Goes

Oh, soothe her care,

For a daily prayer

up from that anxious mother's breast, That thou, the child of her love, be blest.

And oh, there is One that dwells above,

Beyond all sight and thought,

Who gave to that mother her ceaseless love, And in her bosom wrought

An image true

Where thou may'st view

The type of a love no time can strain, Clasping thee round with a viewless chain.