Soon the whole,

Like a parched scroll,

Shall before my amazed sight uproll;
And without a screen

At one burst be seen

The Presence wherein I have ever been.

Oh, who shall bear

The blinding glare

Of the majesty that shall meet us there!

What eye may gaze

On the unveiled blaze

Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancient of Days?

Christ us aid,

Himself be our shade,

That in that dread day we be not dismayed.

T. WHYTEHEAD.

THE

A Churchyard in Spring.

HE purple fells against the sky shut out the misty
East,

Where winds the stream beneath the hill; the stately
oxen feast,

The bashful flowers are peeping out into the glittering air, The tender grass is shooting fast for baby hands to tear.

Yet while the rapture of the Spring bids all the earth rejoice,

The Autumn leaves that linger still whisper with solemn

voice:

The path on which the sunlights fall hath felt the mourner's tread;

Around, beneath, where'er we turn, repose the silent dead.

Here by a little infant's head the daffodil is growing, Over her mother's grave, hard by, the soft West wind is blowing:

I do not grudge the birds their song, the lambs their gambols wild,

But can they fill a home again, or bring us back a child?

No: for they sleep the blessed sleep which only He can break,

Who when He comes shall all His joy with His elect partake:

The Winter then will quite be past,—the world shall have its Spring

When in the Easter of her life the risen Church shall sing.

Oh, who that knows what Christ hath been, or think what Christ can be,

Would dare to summon back His dead this earth once more to see!

Rich as we were when human love we daily learned to prize, The love of God is sweeter still, the Saviour never dies.

And if for us our blessed hoard of holy joy is grown,

If faith can sometimes rise to say, "With God I'm not alone!"

If loss to us who lose is gain when to our Lord we cling, If in the night our wondering lips with sudden joy can sing;

For those who stand before His face and see His glory there,

And walk in white, and on their brow the name of Jesus

wear,

How can we mourn, who we ourselves desire on Christ

to gaze?

How shall we mingle sighs of ours with their exulting

praise?

Leave them with HIM who loves us all with tender love

and true,

Trust them with Him who did for them what you could never do :

Their death is died, their tears are shed, empty their cup

of pain;

No trouble now can vex their heart, no sin their garments

stain.

Soon, soon to us our Lord will send : but first our work be done,

Our battle fought, our victory sure, our course in patience

run;

Others will then be mourning us, as we are mourning now, And while they put us in our shroud a crown will press our brow.

Be cheerful, for the time is short; watch, for the night is

long:

To finish well the given task our Lord will make us strong. This be the thought to nerve our hearts, till in our home we stand,

"I wish to be a pilgrim now, bound for Emmanuel's land.”

A. W. THOROLD.

The Angels in the House.

HREE pairs of dimpled arms, as white as snow,
Held me in soft embrace;

Three little cheeks, like velvet peaches soft,
Were placed against my face;

Three tiny pairs of eyes, so soft, so deep,

Looked in mine this even;

up

Three pairs of lips kissed me a sweet "good night,"—
Three little forms from heaven.

Ah, it is well that little ones should love us:
It lights our faith when dim

To know that once our blessed Saviour bade them
Bring "little ones" to Him.

And said He not, "Of such is heaven," and blest them, And held them to His breast:

Is it not sweet to know that when they leave us 'Tis there they go to rest?

And yet, ye tiny angels of my house

(Three hearts encased in mine),

Be not my idols, lest the Lord should say, "Those angels are not thine!"

The Mother's Hymn.

ORD, who ordainest for mankind

Benignant toils and tender cares,

We thank Thee for the tie that binds The mother to the child she bears.

We thank Thee for the hopes that rise
Within her heart, as day by day

The dawning soul from those young eyes
Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray.

And grateful for the blessing given,
With that dear infant on her knee,
She trains the eye to look to heaven,—
The voice, to lisp a prayer to Thee.

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave
When from her lap the holy Child,
Sent from on high to seek and save

The lost of earth, looked up and smiled.