This far outdoes our highest thought,The great redemption plan,

The fallen world brought back to heaven, God's untold love to man."

The teaching on that summer eve
Was like the gentle shower
That falls refreshing on the grass,

And cheering on the flower.
And as through life from stage to stage
With fleeting foot he trod,

It shed a sweetness through his soul,
And led him up to God.

THE EMIGRANT'S RETURN.

THE Cooling eve stole o'er the earth,
The red sun sank in flame;
The ploughman eased his weary team,
And from the furrow came.
The shepherd penn'd his fleecy flock
Upon the quiet moor,

And sweet the happy cottager

Sang by his rustic door.

Down from the croft an aged dame
Came staggering with her load:
A few stray sticks her apron held,
To warm her mean abode;
And, sitting on a humble stool,
The wood securely piled,

Her thoughts were with her absent boy,
Her only living child.

O, years had pass'd since one bright morn, When flowers were on the lea,

He bade farewell to all behind,

And sail'd across the sea.

Then, kneeling down, she pray'd for him, All lonely in her shed;

And soon she sorrow'd for his sire

When laid among the dead.

Since then, the blast of time hath blown

Around her rude and high,
And left her on the strand of change

With tear-drops in her eye.
So she sits down again to muse

Upon her wandering boy,

To feed that flame which chance or change

Or time can ne'er destroy.

O, nought is like a mother's love

In this rude world of strife,

As pure and holy as the rills
Around the well of life.

It stronger grows as time departs
Along his tardy way,

And, as the sun, shines brighter still
Unto the perfect day.

But hark! a rap is at the door;
And ere she leaves her seat,
Her wandering boy is in her arms,
When tears and kisses meet.

And now she sobs, and now she smiles,
And now she smoothes his hair;
Then kneels, and with uplifted hands
Pours forth an earnest prayer.

"And can this really be my boy, Again return'd to me,

With so much kindness in his heart?

O yes, 't is he, 't is he!

Last night I dreamt I saw him here
Before my gladden'd view,
And felt his arms about my neck:
Now, God be thank'd, 't is true."

And when the glow-worm's silvery light

Was gleaming by the well,

And on the hills the hush of night

Was resting like a spell,

The breath of prayer from that rude home

Uprose in strains of joy,

And Jesus Christ was honour'd by

That mother and her boy.

THE DYING WIDOW.

THE day was waning dark and drear,
When in a rafter'd shed

A widow'd mother, worn and wan,
Lay dying on her bed:

Two little trembling children stood
And watch'd her while she said:

"The sands of life are ebbing fast;
I feel that I must die:

But stay your tears, my little ones;
Our Father in the sky

Has promised He will feed

my babes:

Our Father cannot lie.

"Within the churchyard on the hill,
Beneath the old yew-tree,
Your sire has slept for many a day :

There let them bury me;

For I would rest with him I love
When death has set me free.

"And from our holy home in heaven, Beyond the burning spheres, We'll oft stoop down with shining wings,

And brush away your tears.

Come, let me kiss you ere I die

And Zion's morn appears.

"Farewell, my babes! a crystal light
Is bursting on my gaze,

Far sweeter than the smile of morn,
Or noontide's burning blaze.
O Christ, support my children dear
Along life's tangled maze!

"Uphold them, feed them, shield and save,
And cheer them with Thy love;
Thou Father of the fatherless,

Smile on the orphan dove;
And when the storm of time is o'er,
O may we meet above!"

She died the winds howl o'er the thatch,

The pelting rains descend;

An angel enters Paradise,

An endless age to spend.

Her orphan children wept till morn;

Then God became their friend.

THE SETTLER'S DREAM.

"T WAS a day of toil. The weary sire Partook at eve of his simple meal;

His wife sang sweet as a true bard's lyre,

As she turn'd in the dusk her spinning-wheel.