present oblations of gratitude and praise.
There are many, I am aware, to whom the thought of the flight of time is dispiriting. For me, I feel and experience that "He hath not given to us the spirit of fear, but of power."1 Fear enfeebles, but confidence invigorates the mind.
Whoe'er has washed his sin and guilt
In Jesus' blood away,
And to Him cleaves like loving child
Still closer day by day,
With spirit undismayed will meet
The lowering future's wrath;
Though floods may fall and tempests beat,
He keeps his homeward path.
I know what awaits me in my Father's house, and hence,
Why should I hide that oft with longings keen
To reach the better land my bosom swells,
On whose celestial plains, full well I ween,
That good the soul here vainly pants for dwells,
Hailing with eager hope the happy day
When death shall free my wings to soar away?
But I also know that "whatsoever a man soweth "
"that shall he reap" hereafter, and therefore,
In hope rejoicing precious seed I sow,
Men's hearts the soil, the seed God's holy Word.
And forth to see the growth full oft I go;
Tending it well in name of my great Lord-
Not in my own-until the harvest come,
When I shall reap the bliss of my eternal home.
Lord, spare me yet one year, and it shall be
Devoted all to duty and to Thee.
The boon I grant; but YEARS are quickly flown,
Seize then the DAYS, and make each day thine own.
LUKE, xiii. 6-9. "A certain man had a fig-tree planted in his vineyard; and he came and sought fruit thereon, and found none. Then said he unto the dresser of his vineyard, Behold, these three years I come seeking fruit on this fig-tree, and find none: cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground? And he answering said unto him, Lord, let it alone this year also, till I shall dig about it, and dung it and if it bear fruit, well; and if not, then after that thou shalt cut it down."
O then a year, one year, the respite lasts:
Whether I am to be cut down, or grow
For ever in my Master's vineyard fair,
All hangs on the decision of a year.
Lord, three long years Thou didst the fig-tree spare,
That emblem of my life in all its length-
Didst dig about it, and the branches prune,
Binding the tender shoots in the rude blast;
And duly as the year this day brought round,
The fig-tree Thou didst visit, seeking fruit,
And still hast spared it, though the search proved vain,
Redoubling all Thy care and pains again.
"Take then a book, and on its leaves inscribe
What on thy fickle heart to write were vain—
All I have done for, all I've tried on thee."
Master, Thy voice I hear, and my soul weeps,
And self-conviction is what makes it weep.
Oh yes, my heart is fickle, now so soft
That fades each line as if on fluid traced,
The next hour harder than unmolten brass.
Well, such a book I'll write, and thus begin,—
Footsteps of grace abounding in the life
Of an unthankful child. Be that the title,
And I will daily read it till the tale
Is on the tablets of my heart engraved,
The only volume large enough to hold it.
How hast Thou cherished me, Thou God of love!
With larger truth repaid my faithlessness,
And daily borne, and spared me, and forgiven !
Oft walked Thine angel at my side unseen; 1
Oft have I quailed before my foes, while round
About me were Thy fiery hosts encamped,2
All unperceived, because faith's eye was dim.
Yes; still the ladder, once by Jacob seen,
Stands unremoved betwixt the earth and sky,
And if we would but upwards more aspire,
To us the blessed angels would come down.
Our hearts are shut, Thy heaven stands open wide,
And angel after angel sallies forth.
Jehovah, Thou who mak'st Thy messengers
The winds, Thy minister the flaming fire,3
Oh take the fleshly bandage from mine eyes,
That as I still encounter on my way
The heralds of Thy love disguised, I may
Through the dim veil their features recognise.
Fondly I longed such visitants to see,
Yet barred the entrance when they came to me.
And how have I requited all Thy goodness?
Oh! am I still Thy child, or have I been
Haply from the fair garden of Thy saints
Uprooted long ago, like many a tree
Which to the world seems to blossom fair,
Though knit by scarce a fibre to the root?
The field which, watered oft and plenteously,
Repays with thorns and briers the dresser's care,
Is nigh to cursing.1 Am I such a field,
Curse-smitten? Yes; such were, indeed, my fate,
Tried by the laws and precedents of man,
Nor writ, nor advocacy could me save.
For oft, oh yes, how oft, words cannot tell,
I have been richly watered. But, thank God!
I know the phraseology of heaven-
Know that on high the little vocable
Oft has a larger import than on earth.2
Well know I, too, that when among the thorns
That fence the field the sweet forget-me-not
Stands a mute suppliant, the master ne'er
Disdains the lowly beauty of that flower.
Yet is he not with only flowers content,
But asks for corn, and wheat, and wholesome herbs
Reared by the hand of painful industry.
Hear then, O Lord, my sorrow.
Thou to my care didst a small field intrust,
To keep and dress it was my happiness;
I never thought of duty or reward;
I never felt the irksomeness of toil;
The day's employment was the day's delight.
As years fled on, Thy love my bounds enlarged,
And to my growing strength gave ampler sphere.
Alas! the larger field bore scantier fruit.
Oh that for acting manhood's arduous part
The might first love inspired were mine once more!
Not that the high pulse tamed, the bounding heart
Sobered and cooled-not that I these deplore.
I wish not back the eyes with tears bedewed,
The meltings soft, the raptures high, renewed.
Childhood must pass with its caresses sweet,
And manhood come, with toils for manhood meet.
So the bright emerald robe of spring decays,
And gives to autumn's golden treasures place.
When in the Word Thou dost with zeal rebuke
That slumbering Church which her first love forsook,
Not tearful eyes, not bosoms all on fire,
Are what Thy keen heart-searching looks require;
But first love's active zeal and busy hand,
"Repent, do the first works," is Thy command.
With throbbing bosom I approach the source
Whence some proud river takes its origin;
And as I there behold the waters rise,
Spotless as silver or the orient pearl-
Yet how, still more and more as on they flow,
Sluggish and dark at each remove they grow-
Fast down my cheeks the bitter tears descend,
And with the fountain's crystal waters blend;
So at my own life's fountain pensively
I stand, and oft repeat the poet's sigh :
"Thou lowly spot, where first I saw the light,
Experienced my first pleasure, my first pain;
Few else may know thee; all who know, disdain
Yet still one heart for thee with fondness burns,
Constant to thee, where'er I wander, turns."
Say, ye who know the heart, why does it beat Thus sadly at the place where the young eye Drank the first sunbeam, and life's pulse first throbbed? Yet why o'er all the sunniest spots between Flies the fond look to linger on that scene? Feel we the wish to live life o'er again, To seek the footmarks, by the storms of time All but obliterated, and once more
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