And, grateful at heart, his memory went
Back to that waterless Orient,

And the blessed answer of prayer, which came

To the earth of iron and sky of flame.

And when a wayfarer, weary and hot,
Kept to the mid-road, pausing not

For the well's refreshing, he shook his head;
"He don't know the value of water," he said;

"Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done,
In the desert circle of sand and sun,

He would drink and rest, and go home to tell
That God's best gift is the wayside well!"

THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON

HARBOR.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

RAISE ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day

"PRAIS

Still rises on our ears,

Borne from the hills of Boston Bay

Through five times fifty years.

When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept

Out to the open main,

And through the widening waters swept

In April sun and rain.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
The leader shouted, "Pray;"

And prayer arose from all the ships,
As faded Yarmouth Bay.

They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
And May-days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
The full orb of the moon.

And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
In April skies of blue,

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
Each morn was shouted, "Pray;"
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas,
Through Maytime morns, and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
Low 'neath the summer moon;

And as Cape Ann arose to view,

And Norman's Woe they passed,

The wood doves came the white mists through,
And circled round each mast.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
Then called the leader, "Pray;"
And prayer arose from all the ships,
As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Above the sea the hill-tops fair-
God's towers-began to rise,

And odors rare breathe through the air,
Like balms of Paradise.

Through burning skies the ospreys flew,
And near the pine-cooled shores
Danced airy boat and thin canoe,
To flash of sunlit oars.

"Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
The leader shouted, "Pray;"

Then prayer arose, and all the ships
Sailed into Boston Bay.

The white wings folded, anchors down,
The sea-worn fleet in line,

Fair rose the hills where Boston town
Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit walled,
And placid lay the sea.

"Praise ye the Lord," the leader called;
"Praise ye the Lord," spake he.

"Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
Give thanks to God to-day,"

The anthem rose from all the ships
Safe moored in Boston Bay.

"Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods
First heard the ancient song,
And summer hills and solitudes
The echoes rolled along.

The Red Cross flag of England blew
Above the fleet that day,

While Shawmut's triple peaks in view
In amber hazes lay.

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
Praise ye the Lord to-day,"

The anthem rose from all the ships
Safe moored in Boston Bay.

The Arabella leads the song-
The Mayflower sings below
That erst the Pilgrims bore along
The Plymouth reefs of snow.
Oh! never be that psalm forgot
That rose o'er Boston Bay
When Winthrop sung, and Endicott,
And Saltonstall, that day.

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
Praise ye the Lord to-day,"
And praise arose from all the ships,
Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

That psalm our fathers sung we sing,
That psalm of peace and wars,
While o'er our heads unfolds its wing
The flag of forty stars.

And while the nation finds a tongue
For nobler gifts to pray,

"Twill ever sing the song they sung
That first Thanksgiving Day!

"Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
Praise ye the Lord to-day,"

So rose the song from all the ships
Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Our fathers' prayers have turned to psalms
As David's treasures old

Turned, on the Temple's giant arms,
To lily-work of gold.

Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide,
Ho! ships of Boston Bay,

Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide

To this Thanksgiving Day!

We pray to God with fervent lips,
We praise the Lord to-day;

As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
But psalms from Boston Bay.

THE CHURCH AND THE WORLD.

HE Church and the World walked far apart

THE

On the changing shore of time;

The World was singing a giddy song,

And the Church a hymn sublime.

"Come, give me your hand," said the merry World,

"And walk with me this way,"

But the good Church hid her snowy hand,
And solemnly answered-"Nay.

"I will not give thee my hand at all,
And I will not walk with you;
Your way is the way of eternal death,
And your words are all untrue."
"Nay, walk with me a little space,"
Said the World with a kindly air,
"The road I walk is a pleasant road,
And the sun shines always there;

"Your way is narrow and thorny and rough,
While mine is flowery and smooth;
Your lot is sad with reproach and toil,
But in rounds of joy I move.

4

My way, you can see, is a broad, fair one,
And my gate is high and wide;

There is room enough for you and me,

And we'll travel side by side."

Half shyly the Church approached the World,
And gave him her hand of snow;

And the false World grasped it, and walked along,
And whispered in accents low,

"Your dress is too simple to please my taste;

I have gold and pearls to wear;

Rich velvets and silks for your graceful form,
And diamonds to deck your hair."

The Church looked down at her plain white robes,
And then at the dazzling World,

And blushed as she saw his handsome lip,
With a smile contemptuous curled.

"I will change my dress for a costlier one,"
Said the Church with a smile of grace;

Then her pure white garments drifted away,
And the World gave in their place

Beautiful satins, and shining silks,

And roses and gems and pearls;

And over her forehead her bright hair fell

Waving in thousand curls.

"Your house is too plain," said the proud bold World, "Let us build you one like mine,

With kitchen for feasting and parlor for play,

And furniture never so fine."

So he built her a costly and beautiful house-
Splendid it was to behold;

Her sons and her daughters met frequently there,
Shining in purple and gold.

And fair and festival-frolics untold,

Were held in the place of prayer;

And maidens bewitching as sirens of old

With world-winning graces rare.

Bedecked with fair jewels and hair all curled-
Untrammeled by Gospel or Laws,

To beguile and amuse and win from the World
Some help for the righteous cause.

The Angel of mercy rebuked the Church,

And whispered, "I know thy sin;"

Then the Church looked sad, and anxiously longed
To gather the children in.

But some were away at the midnight ball,
And others were at the play;

And some were drinking in gay saloons,
And the Angel went away.

Then said the World in soothing tones-
"Your loved ones mean no harm-
Merely indulging in innocent sports,"

So she leaned on his proffered arm.

She smiled, and chatted, and gathered flowers
And walked along with the World;
While countless millions of precious souls
To the horrible pit were hurled!

"Your preachers are all too old and plain,"
Said the gay World with a sneer;

"They frighten my children with dreadful tales Which I do not like them to hear.

"They talk of judgments, and fire, and pain,
And the doom of endless night;

They warn of a place that should not be
Thus spoken to ears polite!