How rich I was, I dare not — dare not think;
How poor I am, Thou knowest, who can see
Into my soul's unfathomed misery;

Forgive me if I shrink!

Forgive me if I shed these human tears,
That it so hard appears

To yield my will to Thine, forgive, forgive!
Father, it is a bitter cup to drink!

My soul is strengthened! it shall bear
My lot, whatever it may be ;
And from the depths of my despair,
I will look up and trust in Thee!

MARY HOWITT

TO A FRIEND.

SAD

AD soul, whom God, resuming what He gave, Medicines with bitter anguish of the tomb, Cease to oppress the portals of the grave, And strain thy aching sight across the gloom. The surged Atlantic's winter-beaten wave Shall sooner pierce the purpose of the wind Than thy storm-tost and heavy-swelling mind Grasp the full import of His means to save. Through the dark night lie still; God's faithful grace Lies hid, like morning, underneath the sea. Let thy slow hours roll, like these weary stars, Down to the level ocean patiently;

Till His loved hand shall touch the Eastern bars,
And His full glory shine upon thy face.

WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE

Addressed to a Friend, after the Loss of
a Child.

WHE

́HEN on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst.

And I was fain to bear to you
A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be as healing dew,
To steal some fever from your grief.

After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of death
Like a long twilight haunting lay,

And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,
The story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.

They, in the valley's sheltering care,

Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green

That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mists the sunbeams slide.

But nought can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,

Till in his arms their lambs he takes,

Along the dizzy verge to go,
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on, o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures, lifted fair,

More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea.

A blissful vision, through the night,
Would all my happy senses sway,
Of the good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the stony way,

Holding our little lamb asleep, —
While, like the murmur of the sea,
Sounded that voice along the deep,

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Saying, Arise, and follow me!"

MARIA LOWELL.

THE CHILD'S PICTURE.

(WHAT IT SUNG TO A SORE HEART.)

LITTLE face, so sweet, so fair,

Pure as a star,

Through the wilderness of air
Twinkling afar!

With what melody divine,
Sweet as a psalm,

Sing those innocent eyes to mine
Out of their calm!

And what echoing chords in me
Wake from their sleep,

God in me to God in thee,
Deep unto deep!

Ah, my pain is not yet old ;
Aching I list,

And thy loveliness behold
Dim through a mist.

Thoughts unbid my spirit stir;
Fresh in her charms
Comes my tiny wanderer
Back to my arms—

Shall my fear or faith grow strong? Hast thou no words?

Canst thou mock my spirit so,
Giving no sign?

Ah, thou singest clear and low-
"I am not thine!

Nay, the beauty that was mine
Sleeps 'neath the sods.

Softly floats thy lay divine

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Beauty is God's!"

Melts for aye the beautiful flake,
Child of the sky,

On the bosom of the lake -
"Spirit am I !"