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

Oh, no! the glory earth puts on,
The child's unchecked delight,

Both witness to a triumph won,
(If we did but read 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.

THE WANDERER.

AR from the Shepherd's one true fold

I stray,

In pathways all unknown;

O dark and gloomy is the woeful day That finds me here alone.

My hopes are blighted, and my heart bereft
Of comfort and repose,

Because the Shepherd's blessed Fold I left,
To wander where I chose.

I sought more liberty and less restraint;
My will I wished to please;

And all day long I made a vain complaint,
In greater rest and ease.

At last I broke away and left the flock,
To find a desert bare-

No food, no cooling stream, no sheltering rock,—
False dreams and blank despair.

O for the Fold, the blessed Fold once more!
O for the Shepherd's hand,

To guide me back, and lead me as of yore
In verdant pasture land!

O seek me, tender Shepherd, lest I die ;
Find me and take me home;

Once there again in calm security,
My feet shall never roam.

Thy staff may strike-I will not shrink again,
Or spurn Thy warning voice,
Or seek a pathway without toil or pain,
Of mine own erring choice.

But in the footsteps of the flock, Thy way
With duteous love I'll take,

And strive to curb my will, and day by day
All devious ways forsake.

Then seek me tender Shepherd, lest I die,
Or further from Thee roam;

In pity heed Thy wanderer's heart-wrung cry,
And bring me safely home.

E. L. LEE.

UNTO THE PERFECT DAY.

UR course is onward, onward into light:

What though the darkness gathereth

amain,

Yet to return or tarry, both are vain.
How tarry, when around is thick night?
Whither return? what flower yet ever might,
In days of gloom, and cold, and stormy rain,
Enclose itself in its green bud again,

Hiding from wrath of tempest out of sight?
Courage!-we travel through a darksome cave;
But still as nearer to the light we draw,
Fresh gales will reach us from the upper air,
And wholesome dews of heaven our foreheads
lave,

The darkness lighten more, till full of awe
We stand in the open sunshine-unaware.

R. C. TRENCH.

VIRTUE.

WEET Day! so cool, so calm, so

bright;

The bridal of the earth and sky:

The dew shall weep thy fall to

night;

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his

eye:

Thy root is ever in its grave:

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses;
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shews you have your closes :-
And all must die.