So when our worldly all is reft,
Our earthly helper gone,

We still have one true anchor left-
God helps, and He alone.

He to our prayers will lend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief,

He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.

Then turn to Him 'mid sorrows wild,
When want and woes o'erwhelm,
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our Father's at the helm.

THE MOSS ROSE.

THE angel of the flowers one day
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge 't is given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF.

Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose,
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee."
"Then," said the rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace bestow."

The spirit paused in silent thought:
What grace was there that flower had not?
'T was but a moment-o'er the rose
A bed of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

-Anonymous.

THERE is a tongue in every leaf,

A voice in every rill,

A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air,
A tongue that's never still.

183

'Tis the Great Spirit wide diffused
Through everything we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious-life and death,
Time and eternity.

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forest hoar,
When winds are raging loud.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed,

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine and the shade.

I see Him, hear Him everywhere,
In all things-darkness, light,
Silence and sound; but most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall
In the still hour of night.

-Anonymous.

A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD.

WE walked within the churchyard bounds,

My little boy and I,

He laughing, running happy rounds,

I pacing mournfully.

"Nay, child, it is not well," I said,
66 Among the graves to shout,
To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout."

A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play,

A moment stilled his joyous tongue,
Almost as hushed as they.

And white clouds o'er that spot would pass
As freely as elsewhere,

The sunshine on no other grass

A richer hue might wear.

And formed from out that very mould,

In which the dead did lie,
The daisy with its eye of gold,
Looked up into the sky.

The rook was wheeling overhead,
Nor hastened to be gone;

The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perched on a grey headstone.

"And God," I said, "would never give
This light upon the earth,

Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,

"If our one wisdom were to mourn
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest thoughts forlorn,
Of worm and early bed.

66 Oh, no! the glory earth puts on,
The child's unchecked delight,
Both witness to a triumph won,
If we but judged aright.

“A triumph won o'er Sin and Death;
From these the Saviour saves,

And, like a happy infant, Faith
Can play among the graves."

-R. C. Trench.

PEACE.

My soul, there is a country
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingéd sentry
All skilful in the wars.