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that like sweet things, (Psa. xix. 10); wine for the faint, (Pro. ix. 2); and bread for all, (Mat. iv. 4). At the head of the table sits the King Himself; and the attendants are angels, who are sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation.' Over the picture you read, 'Thy words were found, and I did eat them.' And again, under it, I have esteemed the words of His mouth more than my necessary food.'

What a wonderful picture this is, and no less true than wonderful! Ever since God began to give His Word to His people, it has been their food in all ages. And inasmuch as you see the King Himself seated at the table, that is to remind you, that when He dwelt on earth, He lived by partaking daily of the food which He had provided for us, just as He conquered His and our enemies with the sword He had forged for our use.

Now, food is necessary to sustain life. You all know that, of course; and you would not expect to live long, if you took no food. But it is just as true of your soul as of your body; and the food to keep your soul alive, is found only in God's Word.

Again, food is necessary to ensure growth, and it must be wholesome nourishing food. Not long ago, in Edinburgh, a child was found by a policeman in a wretched part of the city. It was really three or four years of age, but it looked like a baby of a few months, and a very puny wretched baby too. Why? Because, instead of getting nourishing food, it had been fed all its life on whisky! Now, you may starve your soul just as that poor baby's body was starved; and that is why I remind you that you need 'the sincere (i.e., pure) milk of the Word' to ensure your growth. I dare say some of you have a baby-sister just now, of whom you are very fond. Suppose I were to come to see you five years hence, and find your little sister still a baby in the nurse's arms, unable either to speak or walk! I know, if such a thing were to happen, your parents would not rest till they found out what was wrong,

and how it might be set right. Ah! I fear our gracious Heavenly Father has children at present in Scotland who have scarcely grown at all, since they were born again some years ago. If you are His child, remember His command to you is, 'Grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ; and in order to do this, you must feed upon His Word.

Once more, good food is necessary to preserve health. In large cities, many of the children of the poor are sickly and subject to all sorts of diseases, just for want of a sufficiency of wholesome food. You know the Bible often speaks of diseases of the soul, and we read particularly of ‘the well-beloved Gaius,' that his soul was strong and healthy. (3 John, ver. 2.) When you are not very well, and the doctor comes to see you, one of the questions he asks is, whether you have lost your appetite. If so, he pays particular attention to bringing it back, and probably gives you some bitter tonic to take. Now, there are times when God's children lose their appetite; and that is a sure sign that they are in bad health. Often, in order to bring back their relish for heavenly food, the Good Physician has to give them bitter medicine; that is, He sends some trial on them that makes them feel they cannot live without feeding on the Bible.

You all understand that when you are hungry, looking at food, or watching others eat, will not satisfy you. Just so with spiritual food; you must love the Bible, and study it for yourself, or it will not make you a strong, healthy child, in the Heavenly Father's family.

Now, I am going to tell you a story, and leave you to find out its meaning. A man went one day to a doctor, and complained that he felt very ill and queer. The doctor asked, among other questions, 'What did you eat for breakfast this morning?''Oh!' said the man, 'I ate no breakfast.''Well, what did you eat yesterday? '—' I took no food yesterday.'-The day before, then?'-The man thought for a minute, and then answered, 'To tell the truth, I've

not eaten anything since this day week; but I ate for three hours then.'Well, replied the doctor, my prescription for you is to go home, and take wholesome food regularly every day.' 'What a foolish man!' I hear you say. Then you and I must take care and never be like him.

If you look through the Old Testament, you will find a good many people mentioned, who used either to eat regularly at the king's table, or who were fed at the king's expense. When you next take your

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Bible to read a chapter, will you try and think that you are sitting down at the Great King's table, where all the noblest and best that have ever lived on earth have

sat before you. To-day, His people in every land are getting portions from Him; but His loving care will not forget you, though you are but a little child. He has a portion and a smile of welcome for you, if you will but take the one from His pierced hand, and look up into His blessed face for the other.

J. B. M.

Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
His little day of life but then begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss.
Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more.
Children, not thine, have trod our nursery floor;
And when the gardener, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped.
"Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the Pastoral house our own.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the
hours,

When, playing with the vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, the jessamin,

pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile.)

Could those few pleasant days again appearMight one wish bring them, could I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Seems so to be desired-perhaps I might? But no-what here we call our life is suchSo little to be loved, and thou so much.'

His

Cowper was seven years in Westminster School. Afterwards he studied law, but never practised it. For now that dark cloud came over his life, which was never wholly lifted from it; Cowper was insane. When he left the asylum at St. Albans, all the hopes of his life were scattered. His father was dead, and of all the family born in the old Berkhampstead rectory, the five sons, and two daughters, only himself and his brother John remained. tender and clinging affection for this last remaining brother, drew him to the little town of Huntingdon, not far from Cambridge, where his brother lived. Here the river Ouse steals through the rich and level lands among the poplars and the willows; and in the family of the Unwins Cowper found that gentle home which sheltered him all the remaining years of his long, sorrowful life.

After the death of Mr Unwin, he removed with Mrs Unwin to Olney in Buckinghamshire, wishing to enjoy the ministry of Newton, who was then curate of Olney. It is to this friendship of Cowper and Newton that we owe the Olney Hymns. Cowper, indeed, wrote very few of them.

He could not comfort himself in the tender love of God. He longed for nearness to God, and he could not feel Him near. And so he was troubled and sad; and all his hymns are tinged with the griefs of his own soul.

"The billows swell, the winds are high, Clouds overcast my wintry sky; Out of the depths to Thee I call:

My fears are great, my strength is small.

O Lord, the pilot's part perform,
And guide and guard me through the storm;
Defend me through each threatening ill;
Control the waves; say, "Peace, be still."

Amid the roaring of the sea,

My soul still hangs her hope on Thee; Thy constant love, Thy faithful care, Is all that saves me from despair.

Dangers of every shape and name Attend the followers of the Lamb, Who leave the world's deceitful shore, And leave it to return no more.

Though tempest-tossed and half a wreck, My Saviour, through the floods, I seek; Let neither winds nor stormy main Force back my shattered bark again.'

But Cowper's sacred poetry is too well known to quote. Best known of all, perhaps, is that beautiful hymn—

'God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.'

It is said to have been written in an hour of such dark sorrow as no little child can understand.

But Cowper was gentle through his sorrow-lived a simple and blameless life,

'Of myself, who had once both leaves and fruit, but who have now neither, I say nothing. The light that reaches me cannot be compared either to that of the sun or moon. It is a flash in a dark night, during which the heavens seem opened only to shut again.'

And

And thus he walked through his dark life-ever longing for the love which was all round him, and he knew it not. But all the green things which God made were endless in their friendship to him-the poplars and the elms; and the flags and rushes in the pond; and the moss and ivy which grew round the little hermitage where so often he read and thought. his letters have made us know them all, and also his still, domestic life, where he read by the winter hearth to his faithful friend, Mrs Unwin, or held the wool for her knitting, while her busy fingers wound it. We know how his green-house was fronted with myrtles, which made the most agreeable blind;' and how his favourite walk was spoiled by the cutting down of the lilacs and syringas, and the tall poplars which had been his summer shade. And his poetry, like his letters, are all touched with home life, inspired by the sofa and the tea urn, and the quiet garden walk. Constant, through the long years of gloom, Mrs Unwin tended him. At length she, too, became an invalid; and Cowper's love and sorrow are told in some some sad verses, dated 1793.

"The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow;
I see thee daily weaker grow;
"Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of Orient light, My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign,
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!'

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It was on the 17th of December, three years after this, that Mrs Unwin died. Cowper would not believe she was gone. But when he entered her room, and saw the gentle, placid face, still with death's long stillness, he turned away in an agony, and never named her again.

For three more saddened years his own life lingered on. He died on the 25th of April, 1800, and was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel in the church of East Dereham, in Norfolk. The church is very

old. It was founded in the time of the Saxons by a princess of East Anglia, and afterwards destroyed by the Danes. But it has been restored and preserved through all these troubled centuries, and in the year 1800 became Cowper's quiet restingplace.

Rest at last after the long sorrow, not among the green trees he loved, but under the hallowed arches where others, through so many ages, had sought and found God.

H. W. H. W.