HUMILITY. The warrior from his arméd tent, Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent Thousands and tens of thousands bring If, at an earthly chime, the tread Approach, whene'er the Gospel's read How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep And countless hosts of angels keep The Sabbath of the skies! -C. Swain. HUMILITY. THE bird that soars on highest wing, When Mary chose the better part, She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently opened heart Was made for God's own temple meet. Fairest and best adorned is she Whose clothing is humility. The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, In deepest adoration bends : The weight of glory bows him down Then most when most his soul ascends. Nearest the throne itself must be The footstool of humility. -Montgomery. 113 Thus star by star declines, As morning high and higher shines Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in heaven's own light. -James Montgomery. THE OWL. THE OWL. IN the hollow tree in the old grey tower, Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour, Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him, But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, Oh! when the night falls and roosts the fowl, And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, Oh! when the moon shines and dogs do howl, Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight: If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate- Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate So when the night falls and dogs do howl, Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl! -W. B. Procter. 115 WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil, When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mowers' toil, When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade, Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, No! let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be: The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, -Bishop Heber. |