I heard the captain call, And the sailors' answer shrill; But I lay snug and still. At length the storm was over, Upon the deck to play. The bright sparkling main, And see the stooping mast; That drove us on so fast; HEATHEN CHILDREN AT HEAVEN'S GATE. LITTLE travellers Zion-ward, In the mansions of the blest There, to welcome, Jesus waits, Gives the crowns His followers win: Let the little travellers in! R Who are they whose little feet, Pacing life's dark journey through, Now have reach'd that heavenly seat They have ever kept in view? “I from Greenland's frozen land ;” “I from India's sultry plain;” "I from Afric's barren sand;" “I from islands of the main.” “All our earthly journey past, LOVE ONE ANOTHER. CHILDREN, do you love each other? As you'd have them do to you? Little children, love each other, Edmeston. And you will find yourselves be blest. MY BOY. I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes-he is not there! I walk my parlour floor, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; To give the boy a call, And then bethink me that he is not there! I thread the crowded street, A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and coloured hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes-cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt, Yet my heart whispers that- he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by his bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly Before the thought comes, that--he is not there! When at the day's calm close, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there! Not there? Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear, Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd-he is not there! He lives! In all the past, And on his angel brow I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! FATHER, thy chastening rod So help us, Thine afflicted ones, to bear, That in the spirit-land, Meeting at Thy right hand, "Twill be in heaven we'll find that he is there! Rev. James Pierpoint. THE OLD COTTAGE CLOCK. OH! the old, old clock, of the household stock, Its hands, though old, had a touch of gold, 'Twas a monitor too, though its words were few, Yet they lived though nations altered ; And its voice, still strong, warned old and young When the voice of friendship faltered. Tick, tick,” it said—“ quick, quick to bed- Up, up and go, or else, you know, You'll never rise soon in the morning." A friendly voice was that old, old clock, But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, When the dawn looked grey o'er the misty way, And the early air blew coldly: “Tick, tick,” it said "quick out of bed, For five I have given warning; You'll never have health, you'll never get wealth, Unless you're up soon in the morning." Still hourly the sound goes round and round, While the tears are shed for the bright days fled, Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone Its hands still move, though hands we love "Tick, tick," it said; "to the churchyard bed, Up, up, and rise, and look to the skies, |