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Hoping ever, failing never;

Though deceived, believing still ;
Long abiding, all confiding

To thy heavenly Father's will ;
Never weary of well-doing,

Never fearful of the end ;
Claiming all mankind as brothers, -

Thou dost all alike befriend.




One quiet eve, some years ago, while lingering by a stile That led into a wayside path, to watch the clouds a while, Ere Thought had lifted from my heart the shadow of her

wing, I saw a child - a little girl — returning from a spring. A well-filled pitcher lightly pressed her curls of silken hair, Supported by a tiny hand. The child was passing fair, With something in her sunny face pure as the sky above, And something in her gentle eye that guardian angels love.

A little flower, blossoming a step or so aside,
This happy child of innocence with sudden joy espied;
And, letting down her pitcher, with the same sweet, joyous

She watered it, half-laughingly, and gayly tripped along.

The flower seemed to raise its head, bowed by a summer's

sun, And smile beneath the act the child unconsciously had done; While wandering on, with fairy tread, as merry as before, I saw her pass the garden gate, and close the cottage door.

Oh! often when this little scene has crossed my thought

again, I've wondered if, with all the love that warmed her spirit

then, This little girl has tripped through life as joyous to the last, Refreshing all the weary hearts that met her as she passed; If, with unconscious tenderness, her heart has paused to

bless The

poor amid their poverty, the sad in their distress; Still following up God's teachings day by day, and hour by

hour, Foreshadowed in that simple act, the water and the flower ;

If, with a song as pure and sweet, that voice has hushed to

rest The troubles of the aching heart, the sorrow-laden breast; If to the wayside wanderer, where'er her steps have led, The pitcher has been lowered ever kindly from her head. O holy, happy Charity ! how many pleasures lost By those who have not known thee, had been worthy of the How many heads a blessing from the upper world have


borne, While lowering the pitcher to the weary and the worn!

Thou who hast stood beside God's spring of blessings day,

by day, To fill the pitcher of thy wants, and carry it away, The poor and the dejected, whom God hath willed to roam, Are resting by the wayside that leads thee to thy home. Oh! let thy heart beat ever quick, in action kind to be, Remembering Him whose bounty has at all times followed


And deem it not a trouble, in the hedge-row or the town,
To linger where the weary are, and let the pitcher down.



What time the Saviour spread his feast
For thousands on the mountain-side,
One of the last and least

The abundant store supplied.
Haply the wonders to behold,
A boy, 'mid other boys he came,
A lamb of Jesus' fold,

Though now unknown by name.

Or, for his sweet, obedient ways,
The apostles brought him near to share
Their Lord's laborious days,

His frugal basket bear.
Or, might it be his duteous heart
That led him sacrifice to bring,
For his own simple part,

To the world's hidden King ?
Well may I guess how glowed his cheek,
How he looked down, half pride, half fear :
Far off he heard one speak

Of him in Jesus' ear.
“There is a lad, — five loaves hath he,
And fishes twain ; but what are they

Where hungry thousands be?”

Nay, Christ will find a way.
In order, on the fresh green hill,
The mighty Shepherd ranks his sheep
By tens and fifties, still

As clouds when breezes sleep.
Oh! who can tell the trembling joy,
Who paint the grave, endearing look,
When from that favored boy

The wondrous pledge he took ? Keep thou, dear child, thine early word;

Bring Him thy best : who knows but he,

For his eternal board,

May take some gift of thee?
Thou prayest without the vail as yet;
But kneel in faith: an arm benign
Such prayers will duly set

Within the holiest shrine.
And prayer has might to spread and grow :
Thy childish darts, right aimed on high,
May catch Heaven's fire, and glow

Far in the eternal sky;
Even as he made that stripling's store
Type of the feast by Him decreed,
Where angels might adore,
And souls for ever feed.

Lyra Innocentium.


One evening, Jesus lingered in the market-place, Teaching the people parables of truth and grace ; When, in the square remote, a crowd was seen to rise, And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries.

The Master and his meek disciples went to see
What cause for this commotion and disgust could be,
And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid;
Revolting sight! at which each face its hate betrayed.

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