On Afric's barren land;
No cloudy veil obscured the sky;
And the hot breeze that struggled by
Was filled with glowing sand.
No mighty rock upreared its head,
To bless the wanderer with its shade,
In all the weary plain;
No palm-trees, with refreshing green
To glad the dazzled eye, were seen ;
But one wide sandy main.
Dauntless and daring was the mind
That left all home-born joys behind,
These deserts to explore,
To trace the mighty Niger's course,
And find it bubbling from its source,
In wilds untrod before.
Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand
Our traveller sat him down; his hand
Covered his burning head;
Above, beneath, behind, around, .
No resting for the eye he found;
All nature seemed as dead.
One tiny tuft of moss alone,
Mantling with freshest green a stone,
Fixed his delighted gaze;
Through bursting tears of joy he smiled,
And while he raised the tendril wild,
His lips o'erflowed with praise.
"Oh, shall not He who keeps thee green, Here in the waste-unknown, unseen—
Thy fellow-exile save?
He who commands the dew to feed
Thy gentle flower, can surely lead
Me from a scorching grave!"
The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired; New courage all his bosom fired,
And bore him safe along;
Till, with the evening's cooling shade,
He slept within the verdant glade,
Lulled by the negro's song.
Thus we, in this world's wilderness,
Where sin and sorrow, guilt, distress,
Seem undisturbed to reign,
May faint because we feel alone,
With none to strike our favourite tone
And join our homeward strain.
Yet often, in the bleakest wild
Of this dark world, some heaven-born child,
Expectant of the skies,
Amid the low and vicious crowd,
Or in the dwellings of the proud,
Meets our admiring eyes.
From gazing on the tender flower,
We lift our eyes to Him whose power
Hath all its beauty given;
Who, in this atmosphere of death
Hath given it life, and form, and breath,
And brilliant hues of heaven.
Our drooping faith, revived by sight,
Anew her pinion plumes for flight;
New hope distends the breast;
With joy we mount on eagle wing,
With bolder tone our anthem sing,
And seek the pilgrim's rest.
WHEN I can trust my all with God,
In trial's fearful hour,
Bow, all resigned, beneath His rod,
And bless His sparing power,
A joy springs up amid distress,
A fountain in the wilderness.
Oh! to be brought to Jesus' feet,
Tho' sorrows fix me there,
Is still a privilege,-and sweet-
The energies of prayer,
Tho' sighs and tears its language be,
If Christ be nigh, and smile on me.
Oh! blessed be the Hand that gave,
Still blessed when it takes,
Blessed be He who smites to save,
Who heals the heart He breaks;
Perfect and true are all His ways,
Whom Heaven adores and death obeys.
Not a threatening cloud be seen,
Who can undertake to say,
"T will be pleasant all the day?
Tempests suddenly may rise,
Darkness overspread the skies,
Lightnings flash, and thunders roar,
E'er a short-lived day be o'er.
Often thus the child of grace
Enters on his Christian race,
Guilt and fear are overborne,
'Tis with him a summer's morn;
While his new-felt joys abound,
All things seem to smile around;
And he hopes it will be fair,
All the day and all the year.
Should we warn him of a change,
He would think the caution strange;
He no change or trouble fears,
Till the gathering storm appears;
Till dark clouds his sun conceal,
Till temptation's power he feel;
Then he trembles and looks pale,
All his hopes and courage fail.
But the wonder-working Lord
Soothes the tempest by His word:
Stills the thunder, stops the rain,
And His sun breaks forth again:
Soon the cloud again returns,
Now he joys, and now he mourns;
Oft his sky is overcast
Ere the day of life be past.
Tried believers, too, can say,
In the course of one short day,
Though the morning has been fair,
Proved a golden hour of prayer,
Sin and Satan, long ere night,
Have their comforts put to flight;
Oh! what heartfelt peace and joy
Unexpected storms destroy!
Dearest Saviour! call us soon
To thy high eternal noon.
Never there shall tempest rise,
To conceal thee from our eyes;
Satan shall no more deceive,
We no more thy Spirit grieve;
But, through cloudless, endless days,
Sound to golden harps thy praise.
THE RAINBOW.
TRIUMPHAL arch that fill'st the sky,
When storms prepare to part;
I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
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