A LOST DAY. Yet to my hand 'twas given A golden harp to buy, Such as the white-robed choir attune To deathless minstrelsy. Lost! lost! lost! I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again; I offer no reward, For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-intrusted gift Is reft away for ever. But when the sea and land Like burning scroll have fled, I shall see it in His hand Who judgeth quick and dead; And when, of scath and loss That man ne'er can repair, The dread enquiry meets my soul,- 83 MRS. SIGOURNEY. THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE. TEACH me, my God and King, A man that looks on glass, All may of Thee partake. Which with this tincture "For thy sake" A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy cause This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold: For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for less be told. HERBERT. GREEN PASTURES. I WALK'D in a field of fresh clover this morn, Where lambs play'd so merrily under the trees, Or rubbed their soft coats on a naked old thorn, Or nibbled the clover or rested at ease. And under the hedge ran a clear water-brook, To drink from, when thirsty or weary with play; And so gay did the daisies and buttercups look, That I thought little lambs must be happy all day. And when I remember the beautiful psalm That tells about Christ and His pastures so green, I know He is willing to make me His lamb, And happier far than the lambs I have seen. If I drink of the waters, so peaceful and still, That flow in His field, I for ever shall live; I If I love Him, and seek His commands to fulfil, A place in His sheepfold to me He will give. The lambs are at peace in the fields when they play; The long summer's day in contentment they spend; But happier I, if in God's holy way I try to walk always, with Christ for my Friend. MRS. M. L. DUNCAN. WHO MADE THE FLOWERS? "MOTHER, who made the pretty flowers That blossom everywhere; The daisies and forget-me-nots, The bright-eyed little heart's-ease too, WHO MADE THE FLOWERS? Who made the wild red columbines, And fill'd each tiny cup With honey, which the little bees Who made the fragrant clover-fields, To make so many flowers! Mother, who keeps the flowers alive, 87 ""Twas God, my child, who form'd the flowers So lovely and so fair, And they, with all His hand hath made, His kind protection share. He form'd each leaf and opening bud, And gave to some a golden tint, To some a violet hue. God shields the tender flowers by night, He giveth to each different plant |