And when the storm has passed away,
In glory and in calm

May she sit down in the green of the day,
And sing her peaceful psalm.
Now, victory to our England!

And where'er she lifts her hand
In Freedom's fight to rescue Right,
God bless the dear old land!

-Gerald Massey

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

HIGHER, higher will we climb
Up to the mount of glory,

That our names may live through time
In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge, Nature's wealth and learning's spoil Won from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty,-
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty.

Minds are of celestial birth,—
Make we them a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,

Where our fireside comforts sit
In the mildest weather.

Oh! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.

-James Montgomery.

THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS.

THERE'S no dearth of kindness
In this world of ours,

Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers.
Outward we are spurning,

Trampling one another,
While we are only yearning
At the name of brother.

There's no dearth of kindness
Or love among mankind;
But in darkling loneness,
Hooded hearts grow blind.

Full of kindness tingling,
Soul is shut from soul,
When they might be mingling
In one kindred whole.

There's no dearth of kindness,
Though it be unspoken;
From the heart it buildeth
Rainbow smiles, in token
That there be none so lowly
But have some angel touch;
Yet, nursing loves unholy,
We live for self too much.

As the wild rose bloweth,
As runs the happy river,
Kindness freely floweth

In the heart for ever;
But if men will hanker
Ever for golden dust,
Kingliest hearts will canker,
Brightest spirits rust.

There's no dearth of kindness

In this world of ours,

Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers.
Oh! cherish God's best giving
Falling from above;

Life were not worth living

Were it not for love.

-Gerald Massey.

THE CLOUDS.

I CANNOT look above, and see
Yon high-piled pillowy mass

Of evening clouds so swimmingly

In gold and purple pass,

And think not, Lord, how Thou wast seen
On Israel's desert way,

Before them in Thy shadowy screen

Pavilioned all the day

Or of those robes of gorgeous hue
Which the Redeemer wore

When, ravished from His followers' view,
Aloft His flight He bore,
When lifted as on mighty wing,

He curtained His ascent,

And, wrapped in clouds, went triumphing
Above the firmament.

Is it a trail of that same pall
Of many-coloured dyes,

That high above, o'ermantling all,
Hangs midway down the skies?
Or borders of those sweeping folds,
Which shall be all unfurled
About the Saviour, when He holds
His judgment on the world?

For in like manner as He went
(My soul, hast thou forgot?)
Shall be His terrible descent
When man expecteth not!

Strength, Son of Man, against that hour
Be to our spirits given,

When Thou shalt come again with power
Upon the clouds of heaven.

-R. W. Crosswell.

"WHAT is that, mother?" "The lark, my child:
The morn has but just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child. be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise."

"What is that, mother?"

"The dove, my son;

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove-

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love."