LOVE TO OUR NEIGHBOUR. LOVE and kindness we may measure By this simple rule alone: Do we mind our neighbour's pleasure Just as if it were our own? We should always care for others, Let us love like friends and brothers-'Twas the Saviour's last request. His example we should borrow, When the poor are unbefriended, Let us not be so ungrateful, Thus His goodness to reward; Selfishness, indeed, is hateful In the sight of Christ our Lord. When a selfish thought would seize us, And our resolution break, Let us ask the help of Jesus, And resist it for His sake. THE VOICE OF CONSCIENCE. WHEN a foolish thought within Tries to take us in a snare, Conscience tells us, "It is sin," And entreats us to beware. If in something we transgress, says, Do not dare to tell a lie." In the morning when we rise, And would fain omit to pray, "Child, consider," Conscience cries, 66 Should not God be sought to-day?" When within His holy walls, Far abroad our thoughts we send, Conscience often loudly calls, And entreats us to attend. When our angry passions rise, Tempting to revenge an ill, "Now subdue it," Conscience cries, "Do command your temper still." But if we should disregard While those friendly voices call, Conscience soon will grow so hard, That it will not speak at all. GLORY, GLORY. AROUND the throne of God in heaven Thousands of children stand; Children whose sins are all forgiven, A holy, happy band, Singing, glory, glory, glory. In flowing robes of spotless white See every one array'd, Dwelling in everlasting light And joys that never fade, Singing, glory, glory, glory. What brought them to that world above, Where all is peace, and joy, and love— Singing, glory, glory, glory. Because the Saviour shed His blood To wash away their sin: Bathed in that pure and precious flood, Singing, glory, glory, glory. On earth they sought their Saviour's grace, Singing, glory, glory, glory. MORNING. Anne Houlditch. THE God of mercy walks his round Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright, Oh, fools! why stand ye idle here? And grey ye whose scanty locks of One hour remains, there is but one, For moments lost and wasted here. Heber. THE SPRING MORNING. GET up, little sister, the morning is bright, If you shake but a branch, see, there falls quite a shower. By the side of their mothers, look under the trees, How the young lambs are skipping about as they please; The bee, I dare say, has been long on the wing, For the bee never idles, but labours all day, And thinks (wise little insect!) work better than play. The lark's singing gaily; it loves the bright sun, song. Get up, for when all things are merry and glad |