For these and everything we see,
O Lord, our hearts we lift to Thee!
For everything give thanks.

The Remonstrance.

E. I. TUPPER.

"Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour
I've seen my fondest hopes decay:

I never loved a tree or flower
But 'twas the first to fade away;
I never nursed a dear gazelle
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well
And love me, it was sure to die!"

MOORE.

W

THY hast thou thus from childhood's hour Fixed hope on things which soon decay? Why hast thou loved a tree or flower Untaught that such must fade away?

Would wisdom choose a dear gazelle,

Howe'er it rolled its soft black eye,
As that which long could know thee well
And love thee long, when sure to die?

Lo, now thou'rt come to manhood's hour,
Hast "seen thy fondest hopes decay,"-
Bid thy soul speed, in heaven-born power,
To bliss which ne'er can fade away.

In faith, behold enduring joys

Spring up on earth, from light above; Despise life's gilded infant toys

And rest in God,-for "God is love."

W

Murmurs.

THY wilt thou make bright music
Give forth a sound of pain?

Why wilt thou weave fair flowers

Into a weary chain?

Why turn each cool grey shadow
Into a world of fears?

Why say the winds are wailing?
Why call the dewdrops tears?

The voice of happy nature

And the heaven's sunny gleam
Reprove thy sick heart's fancies,—
Upbraid thy foolish dream.

Listen, and I will tell thee

The song Creation sings,

From the humming of bees in the heather
To the flutter of angels' wings.

An echo rings for ever,—

The sound can never cease; It speaks to God of glory,

It speaks to earth of peace.

Not alone did angels sing it

To the poor shepherds' ears; But the sphered heaven's chant it, While listening ages hear.

Above thy peevish wailing
Rises that holy song,-
Above earth's foolish clamour,
Above the voice of wrong.

No creature of God's too lowly
To murmur peace and praise :
When the starry nights grow silent,
Then speak the sunny days.

So leave thy sick heart's fancies,
And lend thy little voice
To the silver song of glory
That bids the world rejoice.

A. A. PROCTOR.

I

A Word to the Discontented.

THOU

cam'st not to thy place by accident,It is the very place God meant for thee:

And should'st thou here small scope for action

see,

Do not for this give room to discontent,

Nor let the time thou ow'st to God be spent
In idly dreaming how thou mightest be

In what concerns thy spiritual life,—more free
From outward hindrance or impediment;
For presently this hindrance thou shalt find
That without which all goodness were a task
So slight that virtue never could grow strong;
And would'st thou do one duty to His mind-
The Imposer's,—overburdened, thou shalt ask
And own thy need of grace to help, e'er long.

TRENCH.

The Streamlet's Song.

LITTLE brook went singing

All through the summer hours;
Ever a low soft murmur

It whispered to the flowers.

The bulrush and the sedge-grass

Its leafy border made,
And the low-bending willow
Gave cold and quiet shade.

The young birds loved its shelter,
And listened to its song;
They tried to learn its cadence,
As it carolled it along.
What was the brooklet singing,
What did its murmur say,—

Its dreamy tones of music,

Through all the summer-day?

A child came to its margin,—
It sang its song to her :
"Fair child," it said, "I'm joyous
As spring-time's flowrets are;

For life is glad and sunny,
And who so glad as I?
For flowerets kiss me as I pass
Beneath the glowing sky."

A maiden watched the brooklet :
To her its slow voice said,
"Calm my life has always been,
In this fair meadow led :