"Faith's" meek, confiding, glistening eye Beholds what mortal cannot see

With childlike trust she looks on high,
The future present seems to be;
While "Reason" yielding to her sway
Pursues with joy his heavenward way.

THE BREAD WHICH PERISHETH.

FRAIL men, ye lowly ones of earth,
Misguided sons of heavenly birth;

What means that mingl'd hope and sorrow,
That toil to-day and toil to-morrow,

For bread, the bread which perisheth?

The earnest statesman's furrow'd brow,
His burning brain all must allow,
Tell of the care which on him weighs,
And all the fleeting world repays,

Is bread, the bread which perisheth.

Behold the scholar pale and worn,
His mind is rack'd, his soul is torn;
For after gathering worlds of lore,
He finds but what he had before,

The bread, the bread which perisheth.

The merchant with his eager looks,
Lives 'midst his bales and pondrous books,
And counts his gold with anxious eye,
When all that really it can buy,

Is bread, the bread which perisheth.

The sun-brown'd swains with horny hand,
Who cull the treasures of the land;
Thro' mellow harvest's ripening glow,
Just reap the fruits of what they sow,

The bread, the bread which perisheth.

The sons of science here and there,
The sons of labour everywhere;
The soldier charging up the steep;

The sailor striving with the deep,

Live for the bread which perisheth.

When man's proud schemes have reached completion, That "gilded selfishness," ambition,

Soon leaves him still unsatisfied,

It offers this, and nought beside,

The bread, the bread which perisheth.

Live for such bread! ah, foolish man,
Was this thy Maker's glorious plan,
That ye Himself should disregard,
And blindly seek thy sole reward

In bread, the bread which perisheth?

Tho' man's perfection now is gone,
Man may not live by bread alone;
But by what from his God proceeds,
Serving in words and humble deeds,

He takes the bread which perisheth.

Then One, his living Saviour-God,
Sin's dreadful burden shall unload,
And 'midst the world's toil and strife,
Shall feed him with the bread of life,

The bread of life which never perisheth

THE SNAW.

WHAT'S that comes twirlin' fra' the lift,

An' covers a' the lan',

While keen winds make it blaw an' drift'Tis winter's gift to man.

It settles on the far hill taps,
An' on the open plain;

The craps wi' freendly hand it haps,
Till spring-time cheers again.

It decks in fairy-wreaths the bowers,
Where the lane robin sings,
An' o'er the heaps o' faded flowers,
A spotless shroud it flings.

The cottar's beild doon in yon glen

Is nearly theekit o'er,

Sa bound wi' sna' ye scarcely ken,
The window fra the door.