STANZAS.

LADY EMMELINE WORTLEY.

SOON, Soon shall my toiling bark touch on the shore,
Where the desolate heart shall be blest;

Where the surge of this long-troubling ocean no more
Shall deprive the worn spirit of rest.

Where no care for the past, and no fear for the morrow, Shall oppress earth's tired wanderers-welcomed, for

given;

When the bark that hath rode through the dim waves of

sorrow,

Shall anchor sublimely in shadowless heaven.

On, on! my frail bark, through the surge and the spray-
There's a beacon that beckons and leads from afar;
On, on! my weak bark, through thy perilous way-
There's above thee a Heaven, and before thee a Star.

(Original.)

LILIES.

Stanzas written under a drawing of a bunch of these flowers in the Album of the Right Honourable Lady C― C.

DELTA.

"Look to the lilies how they grow!"
'Twas thus the Saviour said, that we,
Even in the simplest flowers that blow,
God's ever-watchful care might see.

Yes! nought escapes the guardian eye
Of Him, who marks the sparrow's fall,
Of Him, who lists the raven's cry-
However vast-however small.

Then mourn not we for those we love
As if all hope were reft away,
Nor let our sorrowing hearts refuse
Submission to His will to pay.

Shall He, who paints the Lily's leaf,
Who gives the Rose its scented breath,

Love all his works except the chief,
And leave His image, Man, to death?

No! other hearts and hopes be ours,

And to our souls let faith be given,
To think our lost friends only flowers
Transplanted from this world to Heaven.

TO A CHILD, PLAYING.

REV. R. C. TRENCH.

DEAR boy, thy momentary laughter rings

Sincerely out; and that spontaneous glee, Seeming to need no hint from outward things, Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free.

From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow,

That borrows nothing from the world around? Its springs must deeper lie than we can knowA well whose springs lie safely underground.

So be it ever-and, thou happy boy,

When time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy,

Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay ;—

Then may that joy, like this, to outward things
Owe nothing but lie safe beneath the sod,
A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs,
From the glad-making river of our God.

LUKE XIX. 41.

"And when He was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it."

KEBLE.

WHY doth my Saviour weep
At sight of Sion's bowers?
Shows it not fair from yonder steep,
Her gorgeous crown of towers?
Mark well his holy pains;

'Tis not in pride or scorn,

That Israel's King with sorrow stains

His own triumphal morn.

It is not that his soul

Is wandering sadly on,

In thought how soon at death's dark goal

Their course will all be run,

Who now are shouting round

Hosanna to their Chief;

No thought like this in Him is found;
This were a conqueror's grief.

Or doth he feel the Cross

Already in his heart,

The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss?

Feel even his God depart?

No! though he knew full well
The grief that then shall be

The grief that angels cannot tell-
Our God in agony!

It is not thus he mourns;

Such might be Martyr's tears, When his last lingering look he turns On human hopes and fears; But hero ne'er or saint

The secret load might know,

With which his spirit waxeth faint;
His is a Saviour's woe!

If thou had'st known, ev'n thou,
At least in this thy day,

The message of thy peace! but now 'Tis pass'd for aye away :

Now foes shall trench thee round,

And lay thee even with earth, And dash thy children to the ground, Thy glory and thy mirth.

And doth the Saviour weep
Over his people's sin,

Because we will not let him keep

The souls He died to win?

Ye hearts, that love the Lord,

If at this sight ye burn,

See that in thought, in deed, in word,

Ye hate what made Him mourn!