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"Till I have my journey past, Tell me will the day-light last? Will the sky be bright and clear Till the evening shades appear?" Though the sun now rides so high, Clouds may veil the evening sky; Fast sinks the sun, fast wears the day, Thou must not stop-thou must not stay; God speed thee, pilgrim, on thy way." MRS. BARBAULD.



I THINK When I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men,

How he called little children, as lambs, to his


I should like to have been with him then. I wish that his hand had been placed on my


That his arm had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look, when he said

“Let the little ones come unto me !"

If Jesus were here, and would smile on my song,

When to love him and praise him I tried, With sweetest hosannas, I'd join in the throng, And would press myself close to his side. And if they should chide me or send me away, I would cling to his sheltering knee; And I'd tell them the words he himself once

did say-

"Let the little ones come unto me!"

Yet still to the footstool of mercy I'll go,
And ask for a share of his love;
And if I thus earnestly seek him below,
I shall see him and hear him above.
In that beautiful place he is gone to prepare,
For all who are washed and forgiven;
And many dear children are gathering there,
"For of such is the kingdom of Heaven."

But thousands and thousands, who wander and fall,

Never heard of that beautiful home;

I should like them to know there is room for

them all,

And that Jesus has bid them to come.

I so long for the joy of that glorious time, The sweetest, and brightest, and best, When the dear little children of every clime, Shall crowd to his arms and be blest.


Upon my father's new-clos'd grave
Deep lies the winter's snow,
Green now the grass waves o'er his head,
And tall the tomb-weeds grow.

But other hearts, Lord, thou hast warm'd With tenderness benign,

And in the stranger's eyes I mark
The tear of pity shine.

The stranger's hand by thee is moved
To be the orphan's stay;

And better far, the stranger's voice
Hath taught me how to pray.


EVERY morning the red sun

Rises warm and bright; But the evening cometh on

And the dark cold night; There's a bright land far away, Where 'tis never-ending day.

Every spring the sweet young flowers Open fresh and gay ;

Till the chilly autumn hours

Wither them away;

There's a land we have not seen,
Where the trees are always green.

Little birds sing songs of praise
All the summer long;
But in colder, shorter days
They forget their song:
There's a place where Angels sing
Ceaseless praises to their King.

Who shall go to that fair land?
All who love the right;
Holy children there shall stand
In their robes of white;
For that heaven so bright and blest
Is their everlasting rest.


A BLOOMING group at morning's prime,
Moved by their parents' voice,
Each offered from the Book Divine,
A fragment of their choice.

And one a beauteous boy, o'er whom
Four happy summers swept,
Raised his clear trustful eyes and said,
"I laid me down and slept."

Oh! sweet, my son, the gem you bring, But know you not the rest?

"I waked, because the Lord sustained ;" Complete the sentence blest.

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