"Oh trust me with thy crown,

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'Tis hidden safe with Me; A little while, and where I am There shall my servant be.

Bright seems thy brother's lot;

But child, is thine so dim?

The King, thy Friend, hath of thee asked

To watch one hour with Him."

The Brook in the Way.

Among the Flowers.

W

BY A CURATE.

E took them to the woods one day
When the summer woods were gay,
At the flowery close of May,

Saying, "Children, run and play!"

And they hardly understood

They might wander where they would;

And it seemed a doubtful good

That on very flowers they stood,—

Flowers too precious in the sight
Of these children,-priceless quite !
One a king-cup, shining bright,
Held as if she held a light!

Every bank with treasure teemed;
Daisies silver coinage seemed,
Dandelions, starry-beamed,

Like to bright gold pieces gleamed.

Of primroses ling'ring there,
One would weave a garland fair;
One would fill her lap with care
And a miser's anxious air.

From the city's slums they came,
Flowerless, dark, and full of shame,
Full of foulness without name,—
Homes, alas, and hearts the same!

"Feed my lambs," said Christ one day :
So we took them out to play;

For the young lambs God doth lay

Down among the flowers of May.

From the Sunday Magazine.

All things whatsoever ye ask.

"All things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."

FT had I prayed, believing prayed,

Yet nothing could obtain,

And in my folly oft I said,

Lord, is the promise vain?

I prayed in youth, that I might win
The race of youthful pride;
Tho' hope burned like a fire within
My heart, it was denied.

I prayed for power, I prayed for wealth,-
Nor wealth, nor power was mine;
In lingering pain I prayed for health,
And felt my strength decline.

At the last, Wisdom spoke: "My son,
Christ's kingdom is of heaven;

Ask heavenly things,-they shall be done."
I asked, and it was given.

HINDS.

The Great Victories.

N the trials to be suffered

In the fellowship with care,
'Tis the hidden inward struggle
That will prove the worst to bear.

'Tis the strife that no man pities, 'Tis the cry that no man hears,

"Tis the victory unpæaned

But by secret sobs and tears.

Oh, my friends, when God's great angel
Sounds aloud the deeds of might,
On the day when hearts are opened
In the holy Father's sight,—

Then the greatest deeds and noblest
Will be those unheard of now,

Hidden under silent heart-beats

And an uncomplaining brow :

Deeds of patient self-rejection

Wrung from hearts that made no moan,— Tender hearts, that, like the Master's,

"Trod the winepress all alone."

Hearts that purer grew, and fairer,
In the struggle day by day,
Learning thus from holy teachers
How to suffer and to pray.

AMERICAN.

.6

The Harvest Home.

That both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together."

E

ROM the far-off fields of earthly toil

A goodly host they come,

And sounds of music are on the air,—

'Tis the song of the harvest home.

The weariness and the weeping,

The darkness has all pass'd by,

And a glorious sun has risen-
The sun of eternity!

We've seen those faces in days of yore,
When the dust was on their brow
And the scalding tear upon their cheek:
Let us look at the labourers now!

We think of the life-long sorrow
And the wilderness days of care;
We try to trace the tear-drops,-
But no scars of grief are there.

There's a mystery of soul-chasten'd joy
Lit up with sun-light hues,

Like morning flowers, most beautiful

When wet with midnight dews.