They whose bosoms once could joy
In the vain world's vainest toy-

They whose hearts could sometimes feel
E'en the slightest touch of ill-

From the world by sorrow riven,
Gone already half to heaven-
Look with calmness on a scene,
Scarcely now within their ken.

Deem not that the heart is chill'd,

Which, though once with anguish fill'd,

Such emotions all forgot,

Can smile and say, "It matters not."

Caroline Fry.

NEVERTHELESS, NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS THOU WILT."

RACE does not steel the faithful

heart,

That it should know no ill;

We learn to kiss the chastening rod,

And feel its sharpness still.

But how unlike the Christian's tears

To those the world must shed! His sighs are tranquil and resign'd As the heart from which they sped.

The saint may be compell'd to meet Misfortune's saddest blow;

His bosom is alive to feel

The keenest pang of woe:

But, ever as the wound is given,
There is a hand unseen,

Hasting to wipe away the scar,
And hide where it has been.

The Christian would not have his lot Be other than it is;

For, while his Father rules the world,

He knows that world is his.

He knows that He who gave the best,
Will give him all beside;

Assured each seeming good he asks
Is evil, if denied.

When clouds or sorrow gather round,

His bosom owns no fear;

He knows, where'er his portion be,
His God will still be there.

And when the threaten'd storm has burst,

Whate'er the trial be,

Something yet whispers him within,

"Be still, for it is He!"

Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink
From the afflictive stroke;
But faith disclaims the hasty plaint
Impatient nature spoke.

His grateful bosom quickly learns
Its sorrows to disown;

Yields to His pleasure, and forgets

The choice was not his own.

Caroline Fry.

THOUGH HE SHOULD SLAY ME, YET WILL I
TRUST IN HIM."

JAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child, Serenely resting on its mother's arm, Reposing every care upon her God, Sleeps on His bosom, and expects no harm :

Receives with joy the promises He makes,

Nor questions of His purpose or His power;

She does not doubting ask, "Can this be so?" The Lord hath said it, and there needs no more,

However deep be the mysterious word,

However dark, she disbelieves it not; Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys, And "It is written," answers every doubt.

In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery;
And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy,
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.

As evening's pale and solitary star

But brightens while the darkness gathers round, So Faith, unmoved amidst surrounding storms, Is fairest seen in darkness most profound.

Caroline Fry.

WHAT REWARD SHALL I GIVE UNTO THE

I

LORD?"

ARK was my lot, and long it spurn'd

The poor reliefs that man could give ; Till God my wayward spirit turn'd, And bade me see, believe, and live.

Then flow'd my tears, then woke my tongue, And loud His grace to sinners sung.

O what return can I bestow,

Bestow, my God, on mighty Thee! What can I give, that will not flow In tenfold blessings back on me? How rich on earth Thy cup of love! How richer still the fount above!

Be mine to own Thy gentle sway,
To live, to die, to Thee alone;

Whom should I love, and whom obey,

But Him who made me twice His own?

Who form'd me by His living breath?
Who rescued me from sin and death?

Him will I praise; heart, hand, and tongue,
To Him shall daily offerings bring;

I'll dwell His ransom'd train among,
The Lamb's high song with them to sing;
Till I shall join a brighter choir,
And lend a theme to every lyre.

Lyte.