THE HEAVENLY GUEST.

"JESUS, Saviour, be our guest," The little lips were taught to pray; "Jesus, Saviour, be our guest," Was softly utter'd day by day.

And, as he spoke, the father looked

With silent fondness on his child,
To see devotion's early dawn

Beam from his eye so clear and mild.

"My dear papa, how is it so ?"

Said he to him one day at last,

"That Jesus never dines with us? Tho' He by us so oft is ask'd."

"Dear child, you know that Jesus loves
To answer each expectant prayer;
And He may grant your boyish wish
If you should place an empty chair."

Next morning found that youthful heart
Exulting happily and gay,

Because that oft invited one

Might be his holy guest that day.

The vacant chair-selected well-
Was drawn close to the ample board,
The father watch'd with musing eye;
He knew the lesson 'twould afford.

"Jesus, Saviour, be our guest,"

Was solemnly breath'd forth once more,
And as 'twas said a gentle knock
Was heard upon the mansion door.

It soon was op'd, and trembling stood
A little hungry begging boy.

"Oh, who is this?" the children cried;
"He will our coming guest annoy."

His tiny feet were cold and bare,
His flaxen hair hung loose to view,
While through his tatter'd garments pierc'd
Each bitter gust of wind that blew.

The father-host at once approach'd,
And with a parent's tender care,
Led in the wanderer to his home,
And set him in the empty chair.

His wond'ring son, with kindling eye,
Beheld the father's act of grace,
And thought it most profane to see,
A beggar in the Saviour's place.

The father smiled, "Dear boy," he said, "Attend what Jesus says to thee,

"E'en as ye did to one of these, "Ye also did it unto me."

Oh happy was that friendless child, And these few words in season given, Shew'd all around that festive board, They entertained a guest from heaven.

NOTE. The three following pieces were composed by the Author's Father, the late Mr. A. Smeal, sen., nearly half a century ago, and are here introduced in commemoration of his personal worth.

LINES TO PRESTONPANS.

PRESTONPANS! how full art thou
Of smoke and broken tiles,
But these we very soon forget
Whenever beauty smiles.

Rough and rugged is thy shore,
Thy beach is full of danders;
But Brussels carpet it becomes
Whenever beauty wanders.

Rude and chilly is thy flood,
And never ceaseth laving;
But, oh, bring up thy gentlest waves
When beauty there is bathing.

ON HEARING A ROBIN SING ON THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.

THE forest leaves and the garden flowers
Are now all withered and gone,

And nothing is heard in the leafless bowers
But the voice of the Robin alone.

The sweet warblers of summer have ta'en wing,
Or are silent should they be near,—

Of all his fellows he only can sing

On the funeral day of the year.

So the Christian can sing in the dreariest hour,
Though it may be in plaintive strains;
But in the world's distress its harp is broke,
And a mournful silence reigns.

Hosts of friends wait on to defend us,
While the day of prosperity lasts,

Yet few like the Robin attend us,

In the midst of adversity's blasts.