Pray little one, that God may bless
Thy mother for her tenderness;

And watch her from His throne above

With all her own unwearied love.

B

ENEATH Moriah's rocky side

A gentle fountain springs :

Silent, and soft its waters glide,
Like the peace the Spirit brings.

The thirsty Arab stoops to drink
Of the cool and quiet wave,
And the thirsty spirit stoops to think
Of Him who came to save.

Siloam is the fountain's name,
It means, "One sent from God,"
And thus the Holy Saviour's fame
It gently spread's abroad.

HINDS.

O grant that I, like this sweet well,
May Jesus' image bear,

And spend my life, my all, to tell

How full His mercies are!

MC'CHEYNE.

"Trust in God, and do the Right."

OURAGE, brother! do not stumble,

Though thy path is dark as night;

There's a star to guide the humble: "Trust in God, and do the right."

Let the road be long and dreary,
And its ending out of sight:

Foot it bravely, strong or weary,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Perish "policy" and cunning,

Perish all that fears the light; Whether losing, whether winning, "Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no forms of guilty passion,
Fiends can look like angels bright;
Trust no custom, school, or fashion,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no party, church, or faction,

Trust no leaders in the fight; But, in every word and action,

"Trust in God, and do the right."

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight;
Cease from man, and look above thee,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Simple rule, and safest guiding,
Inward peace and inward light;

Star upon our path abiding,

"Trust in God, and do the right."

N. MC'LEOD.

The Passion Flowers of Life.

T

HE setting sun was sinking fast

Behind the heath-clad moor, And as he fell, his rays he threw Upon a cottage door.

An old, old man sat in the porch,

His grey head moving slow,

For eighty years had round it wreathed
Their coronal of snow.

A grandeur to his aged locks

By the bright sun was given, Shedding a halo on his head, As if 'twere ripe for heaven.

Upon his knee, by boisterous play
To slumber deep beguiled,

There slept a flower of God's own hand,—
A darling little child.

A little tiny velvet hand

Within his own was pressed;

A little tiny golden head

Lay nestling on his breast.

The old, old man, with trembling lip,
A blessing breathed of love;
And sure am I, that old man's prayer

Recorded stands above.

Though "Time, the reaper," on his brow His silver stamp had set;

Though heaven called, one link of gold

Bound earth to heaven yet.

Of gold! Yes, even angels bow
Before that influence mild,

God's dearest, purest gift to man,-
A loving little child.

And thus the buds of childhood's love,

Amid our daily strife,

Bloom ever in their wilderness,

The Passion-flowers of life.

ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.