O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a

glow,

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I

know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the

sun,

Forever and forever with those just souls and true,— And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?

Forever and forever all in a blessèd home,

And there to wait a little while, till you and Effie

come,

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your

breast,

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary

are at rest.

A. Tennyson

OOR little Willie,

with his many pretty wiles :

Worlds of wisdom in his look,
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of Heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid

In a workhouse grave.

You remember little Willie,

Fair and funny fellow ! he Sprang like a lily

From the dirt of poverty. Poor little Willie !

Not a friend was nigh, When from the cold world He crouched down to die.

In the day we wandered foodless,
Little Willie cried for "bread";
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for "bed."
Parted at the workhouse door,
Not a word we said;

Ah! so tired was poor Willie !
And so sweetly sleep the dead!

'T was in the dead of winter We laid him in the earth;

The world brought in the new year
On a tide of mirth.

But, for lost little Willie

Not a tear we crave;

Cold and hunger cannot wake him
In his workhouse grave.

We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;
We loved him dutiful:

Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat,
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not

In his workhouse grave.

No room for little Willie ;

In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye
Through which looks no heart.
"Come to me," said Heaven;
And if Heaven will save,
Little matters though the door
Be a workhouse grave.

Gerald Massey

VI

THE HEART

CLXVI

CHRIST TO THE SINNER

HARK, my soul ! it is the Lord,

'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word;

Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee;
Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me?

66

"I delivered thee when bound,

And, when bleeding, healed thy wound; Sought thee wandering, set thee right, Turned thy darkness into light.

"Can a woman's tender care
Cease towards the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee!

"Mine is an unchanging love,
Higher than the heights above,
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.

"Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of grace is done;
Partner of my throne shalt be;
Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me?"

Lord, it is my chief complaint,
That my love is weak and faint;
Yet I love Thee, and adore!
O! for grace to love Thee more.

W. Cowper

O

CLXVII

SUBMISSION

LORD! how happy should we be If we could cast our care on Thee, If we from self could rest;

And feel at heart that One above,
In perfect wisdom, perfect love,
Is working for the best.

How far from this our daily life!
Ever disturbed by anxious strife,

By sudden wild alarms;
O could we but relinquish all
Our earthly props, and simply fall

On Thy almighty arms!

Could we but kneel and cast our load,
E'en while we pray, upon our God,

Then rise with lightened cheer,
Sure that the Father, who is nigh
To still the famished raven's cry,
Will hear, in that we fear.

We cannot trust Him as we should,
So chafes fall'n nature's restless mood
To cast its peace away;