37

How happy are our ears,
That hear the joyful sound,
Which kings and prophets waited for,
And sought, but never found.

How blessed are our eyes,

That see this heavenly light;
Prophets and kings desired it long,
But died without the sight.
The watchmen join their voice,
And tuneful notes employ;
Jerusalem breaks forth in songs,
And deserts learn the joy.
The Lord makes bare His arm
Through all the earth abroad:
Let every nation now behold
Their Saviour and their God.

The Eternal Years.

[By FREDERICK FABER.]

OW shalt thou bear the cross that now

Ho dread a weight appears?

Keep quietly to God, and think
Upon the Eternal Years.

Brave quiet is the thing for thee,
Chiding thy scrupulous fears;
Learn to be real from the thought
Of the Eternal Years.

One cross can sanctify a soul;

Late saints and ancient seers

Were what they were because they mused Upon the Eternal Years.

38

Death will have rainbows round it seen
Through calm contrition's tears,

If tranquil Hope but trims her lamp.
At the Eternal Years.

The Evening.

[By Mrs. PHŒBE H. BROWN, the faithful mother of many children, one of whom is now a missionary in the East. Mothers may take an interest in knowing that in the original the second line reads, "From children and from care."]

I LOVE to steal awhile away

From every cumb'ring care,

And spend the hours of setting day
In humble, grateful prayer.

I love in solitude to shed
The penitential tear,

And all His promises to plead
Where none but God can hear.

I love to think on mercies past,
And future good implore,-
And all my cares, and sorrows cast
On Him whom I adore.

I love by faith to take a view

Of brighter scenes in heaven;
The prospect doth my strength renew,
While here by tempests driven.

Thus, when life's toilsome day is o'er,
May its departing ray

Be calm as this impressive hour,
And lead to endless day.

[By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, born in Haverhill, Mass., 1808.]

MOURN no more my vanished

Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

years:

The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff — I lay
Aside my toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,

Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the autumn morn;
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringéd lids to heaven,
And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south wind softly sigh,

And sweet, calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of

wrong;

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
To build as to destroy;

Nor less my heart for others feel

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,

And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told!
Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track:
:-
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back;
That more and more a Providence
Of Love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;·

That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,

Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight; -

That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,

40

Like mountain-ranges overpast,
In purple distance fair; -
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.

The Rock of Salvation.

[By FRANCIS S. KEY, born in Maryland in 1779; died in Washington 1843. He is known as the author of " The Star-Spangled Banner."]

F life's pleasures cheer thee,

IF

Give them not thy heart,

Lest the gifts ensnare thee
From thy God to part:

His praises speak, His favor seek,
Fix there thy hopes' foundation;
Love Him, and He shall ever be
The Rock of thy salvation.

If sorrow e'er befall thee,
Painful though it be,
Let not fear appall thee;

To thy Saviour flee;

He, ever near, thy prayer will hear,
And calm thy perturbation;

The waves of woe shall ne'er o'erflow
The Rock of thy salvation.