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For ever and for ever all in a blessed home,

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

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



Poor little Willie,

With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look,

And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touch'd 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 crouch'd down to die.

In the day we wanderM foodless,
Little Willie cried for " bread;"

In the night we wander'd 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!

'Twas 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.





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?

"I deliver'd thee when bound,
And, when bleeding, heal'd thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
Turn'd 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 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 disturb'd 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 famish'd 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;
Yet birds and flow'rets round us preach,
All, all the present evil teach

Sufficient for the day.

Lord, make these faithless hearts of ours Such lessons learn from birds and flowers,

Make them from self to cease; Leave all things to a Father's will, And taste, before Him lying still,

E'en in affliction peace.

Child's Christian Year



Behold! a Stranger's at the door!
He gently knocks, has knock'd before,
Has waited long, is waiting still;
You treat no other friend so ill.

But will He prove a Friend indeed?
He will! the very Friend you need!
The Man of Nazareth, 'tis He,
With garments dyed at Calvary.

If thou art poor, (and poor thou art,)
Lo! He has riches to impart;
Not wealth, in which mean avarice rolls;
O better far! the wealth of souls!

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