Hands full of blessings, lavished far and wide,
Hands tender to bind up hearts wounded sore;
Stooping quite down earth's lowest needs beside, -
Master, like thee! we thought, and said no more.

We o'er all sorrow would have raised thee up,

Crowned with life's choicest blossoms night and morn;

God made thee drink of his beloved's cup,

And crowned thee with the Master's crown of thorn.

Looking from thee to him, once wounded sore,
We learned a little more his face to see;
Then looking from the cross for us he bore,
To thine, we almost understood for thee!

Till now, again! we gaze on thee above,
Strong and unwearied, serving day and night;
O blessed life of service and of love!

Master, like thee, and with thee in thy light!

Charles Lowe.

"If ye love me," Jesus said,

Just before his spirit sped,
"Ye would all rejoice, for know
To my Father I shall go."

As we loved our brother here,
We will check the starting tear,
And rejoice that soul new-born
To his Father now has gone.

Thanks to God for life so pure,
Strong to do, to bear, endure;

Elizabeth Charles.

Thanks for faith that feared no cross,
Thanks for hope that knew no loss.

Thanks for love so deep and strong,
Love of right and hate of wrong;
Love, unwelcome truth could tell

Just because it loved so well.

Servants of God!- -or sons
Shall I not call you? because
Not as servants ye knew
Your Father's innermost mind,
His, who unwillingly sees

One of his little ones lost —
Yours is the praise, if mankind
Hath not as yet in its march
Fainted, and fallen, and died!

See! In the rocks of the world
Marches the host of mankind,

A feeble, wavering line.

Where are they tending? — A God
Marshalled them, gave them their goal. —
Ah, but the way is so long!

Then, in such hour of need

Of your fainting, dispirited race,

Ye, like angels appear,

Radiant with ardor divine.
Beacons of hope, ye appear!

Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,
Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall
The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
Praise, re-inspire the brave.
Order, courage, return;

Eyes rekindling, and prayers,
Follow your steps as ye go.
Ye fill up the gaps in our files,

Strengthen the wavering line,
Stablish, continue our march,
On, to the bound of the waste,
On, to the City of God.

Matthew Arnold.

PART IV.

SUFFERING AND REST.

The Sleep.

"He giveth His beloved sleep." Ps. cxxvii: 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this "He giveth his beloved, sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,

The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?

"He giveth his beloved, sleep."

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake.

"He giveth his beloved, sleep."

'Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,

But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber, when

"He giveth his beloved, sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!

O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And "giveth his beloved, sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap.
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
"He giveth his beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose,

Who "giveth his beloved, sleep!"

And friends, dear friends, — when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep,

Let one, most loving of you all,

Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall "He giveth his beloved, sleep."

E. B. Browning.

Epitaph on an Old Maid.

Rest, gentle traveller, on life's toilsome way;
Pause here awhile; yet o'er this lifeless clay
No weeping, but a joyful tribute pay.

No chosen spot of earth she called her own;
She reaped no harvest in her spring-time sown;
Yet always in her path some flowers were strown.