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And yet I have heard my

mother

say,
That she sometime must go away :
Who then shall shield me from earthly ill ?
Some one must love me better still !

Who loves me best ?-my father dear,
Who loveth to have me always near,
He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When pass'd away is the noontide heat,
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies
Brings me the wild-wood strawberries ;
Oh! he is dear as my mother to me,
But he will perish, even as she.

Who loves me best?-my sister fair,
With her laughing eyes and clustering hair,
Who flowers around my head doth twine,
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine,
Who singeth me songs, in her artless glee ;
Can
any

love me better than she ?
Yet when I ask'd, my sister confess'd,
Of all, she did not love me the best.

Who loves me best?-my brother

young, With his healthy cheek and lisping tongue, Who delighteth to hear me in merry play, Far down the greenwood's bushy way; Who sheweth me where the hazle-nuts grow, And where the fairest field-flowers blow; Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest : How shall I find who loves me the best?

My mother loves me—but she may die ;
My white dove loves me, but that may fly;
My father loves me—he may be changed ;
I've heard of brothers and sisters estranged ;
If they should forsake me, what should I do,
Where should I bear my sad heart to ?
Some one, surely, would be my stay,
Some one must love me better than they.

Yes, fair child, there is one above,
Who loves with an unchangeable love;
He who made those frail, dear things
To which thy young heart fondly clings ;
Even though all should forsake thee, still
He will protect thee from every ill :
Oh! is not such love worth all the rest ?
Child, it is God who loves thee best !"

THY WILL BE DONE.

My God!

my

father! while I stray Far from my home in life's rough way, Oh! teach me from my heart to say,

Thy will be done."

Though dark my path, and sad my lot,
Let me be still and murmur not,
Or breathe the prayer Divinely taught,

“Thy will be done."

What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved, no longer nigh,
Submissive still would I reply,

“ Thy will be done."
If thou shouldst call me to resign
What most I prize, it ne'er was mine,
I only yield thee what was thine ;

• Thy will be done.”
Should pining sickness waste away
My life in premature decay,
My Father! still I strive to say,

Thy will be done."
If but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet Spirit for its guest,
My God! to thee I leave the rest,

Thy will be done."
Renew will from day to day,
Blend it with thine, and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,

“ Thy will be done."

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THOUGHTS ON HEARING THE MOTTO OF MR. RAIKES (Founder of Sunday Schools),

“ TRY."

TRY to save a soul from hell,
Try your Saviour's love to tell,
Try to love and serve your God,
Try to spread His cause abroad ;
Try to teach the rising race,
Soon to seek their Saviour's face ;
Try to prove a blessing great,
Though you fill a lowly state;

Try through life to watch and pray,
Serve your Maker day by day;
And when life's short day is o’er,
You will praise Him more and more ;
Try to prove your heart sincere
By a life of holy fear;
Try to live a life of Faith,
Try to die a joyful death,
Try to bear your daily cross,
Calmly meet each earthly loss,
Try to bow to Jesu's will,
And in every storm be still ;
Yet remember while you try,
Ever to your God to cry,
To enable you to stand,
Guarded by His powerful hand ;
For no human strength cay stand,
With so many foes at hand,
Or perform the will of Heaven,
Unless the grace of God be given ;
But our efforts are not vain
If the Lord our souls sustain,
And His Spirit he'll impart
If we seek Him with the heart.

E. M.

SATURDAY EVENING.

Sweet is the last, the parting ray,
That ushers placid evening in ;
When, with the still, expiring day,
The sabbath's peaceful hours begin :
How grateful to the anxious breast
The sacred hours of holy rest !

Hush'd is the tumult of the day,
And worldly cares and business cease ;
While soft the vesper breezes play,
To hymn the glad return of peace :
Delightful season! kindly given
To turn the wandering thoughts to heaven.

Oft as this peaceful hour shall come,
Lord, raise my thoughts from earthly things,
And bear them to my heavenly home,
On faith and hope's celestial wings,-
Till the last gleam of life decay
In one eternal SABBATH DAY!

THE SABBATH EVE.

SABBATH hours ! they come and go
Like the summer streamlet's flow,
Bringing to the waste relief,
Beautiful, but oh ! too brief ;
Sparkling in the golden ray,
Iris-coloured, -then away!
Yet fertility is seen
Fresher, where the stream hath been.

Sabbath hours ! ye come between
Like an islet's emerald green,
Rising o'er life's stormy sea,
Where its wearied ones may flee :
Catching from its tide-washed strand
Visions of their father-land,
Till they deem the soft winds come
Breathing melodies from home.

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