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"Himself hath done it."-Precious, precious words! Himself," my Father, Saviour, Brother, Friend, Whose faithfulness no variation knows ;

Who, having loved me, loves me to the end.

And when in His eternal presence blest,
I at His feet my crown immortal cast,
I'll gladly own with all His ransomed saints,
“Himself hath done it.”—All, from first to last.

PEACE.

How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace,
When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease,
When the welcome of mercy falls soft on the ear,
"Come hither, ye laden; ye weary, draw near!"

There is rest for the soul that on Jesus relies,
There's a home for the homeless prepared in the skies,
There's a joy in believing, a hope and a stay,

That the world cannot give, nor the world take away.

Oh, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly,

And mount to the pinions of faith in the sky; Where the still and small breathing to earth that was given

Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven. M'COMBE.

SET FREE.

At midnight, between 1870 and 1871, as the connection between the State and the Church of Ireland ceased, an intense frostvanished.

"But as for me, I will come in Thy house in the multitude of Thy mercy; and in Thy fear will I worship toward Thy holy temple." -Psalms for the Day.

FROZEN, and chilled, and stranded, they said with an icy sneer,

Black as yon tide her heavens; she will go with the dying year;

But the angel came at midnight, and the grasp of ice gave o'er,

And the ship moved onward grandly to her deeps from the inland shore.

The angel came at midnight, but not with the voice of death,

While the last of the twelve was tolling, the land felt a living breath.

Through the wintry dawn came a promise of the summer of life to be

One chain that had bound her was broken, and Ireland's Church was free.

Thousands of voices blending, prayed the Helmsman still to keep

Her course from the hidden shallows, through the dangers of the deep.

I heard, and I knew there were dangers, but my heart rose o'er their care,

With the bound of that glorious vessel, on the mighty wave of prayer!

And they echoed the old psalm's music, "We will go to Thy house, O Lord

In the multitude of Thy mercy;" We praise Thee with glad accord!

In the might of Thy Spirit's blessing we will suffer and work for Thee,

Till Thou bring our ship to anchor at the mouth of the crystal sea.

MRS H. FAUSSETT (A. BOND).

"CASTING ALL YOUR CARE UPON HIM."

THERE is no sorrow, Lord, too light
To bring in prayer to Thee;
There is no anxious care too slight
To wake Thy sympathy.

Thou who hast trod the thorny road
Will share each small distress ;
The love which bore the greater load
Will not refuse the less.

There is no secret sigh we breathe
But meets Thine ear divine,
And every cross grows light beneath
The shadow, Lord, of Thine.

Life's ills without, sin's strife within,
The heart would overflow,

But for that Love which died for sin,
That Love which wept for woe.

CREWDSON.

CHRISTIAN DUTY.

A FEW short years of pain and peace-
Of light and shade—and then shall cease
The longest life of earthly span,

The "threescore years and ten" of man.
Yet, oh, the weight of weal or woe,
That rests upon our course below!
How many-or for good or ill,
Our silent influence daily feel!
Oh, if such brief, uncertain space
There be, in which to run life's race,
If as we daily, hourly dwell,
Will be our meed of heaven or hell!
Ah! surely it were well to seek
For grace to think, to act, to speak,
With Christian gentleness and love,
As those who hope to meet above?
To lift and lighten as we may,
Each other's burden on the way!

E. Fox.

GOD'S ACRE.

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial ground God's Acre ! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed, that they have garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life-alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow like a fan the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

LONGFELLOW.

IT IS WELL.

BELOVED, it is well;

God's ways are always right;
And love is o'er them all,
Though far above our sight.

Belovèd, it is well;

Though deep and sore the smart,
He wounds, who knows and cares
To heal the broken heart.

Beloved, it is well;

Though grief benight our way, "Twill make the joy more dear

That comes with dawning day,