"Ah, my child," then said the mother,
"We should always careful be;
Many things in life are flowers,
Which we throw away like thee.
We should keep what God does give us ;
Life is not an idle dream;
Ne'er again we'll get the flowers
Which we throw upon the stream,"
THE LOST DAY.
By L. H. SIGOURNEY.
[Earnest and boldly.]
LOST! LOST! LOST!
A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,
And graved in Paradise;
Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.
LOST-where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind.
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's entrusted gift
Is reft away for ever.
But when the sea and land
Like burning scroll have fled, I'll see it in His hand
Who judgeth quick and dead; And when of scathe and loss, That man can ne'er repair,
The dread inquiry meets my soul,
WHAT SHALL IT ANSWER THERE?
ALEXANDER THE GREAT.
[A dialogue for an adult and a boy. Bold and vigorous,] Boy. How big was Alexander, pa,
That people call him great?
Was he, like old Goliath, tall,
His spear a hundredweight?
Was he so large that he could stand
Like some tall steeple high,
And, while his feet were on the ground,
His hands could touch the sky?
Adult. Oh, no, my child, about as large
As I, or uncle Jame';
'Twas not his STATURE made him great,
BUT GREATNESS OF HIS NAME.
Boy. His NAME so great? I know 'tis LONG,
But easy quite to spell;
And more than half a year ago
I knew it very well.
Adult. I mean, my child, his ACTIONS were
So great he got a name,
That everybody speaks with praise,
And tells about his fame.
Boy. Well, what great actions did he do?
I want to know them all.
Adult. Why he it was that conquer'd Tyre,
And levelled down her wall;
And thousands of her people slew,
And then to Persia went :
And fire and sword on every side
Through many a region sent.
A hundred conquer'd cities shone
With midnight burnings red-
And, strew'd o'er many a battle-field,
A thousand soldiers bled.
Boy. Did KILLING people make him great?
Then why was Abel Young,
Who killed his neighbour, training-day,
Put into jail and hung?
I never heard them call him great.
WHY, NO; 'twas not in war;
And he that kills a single man
His neighbours all abhor.
Boy. Well, then, if I should kill a man,
I'd kill a hundred more;
I SHOULD BE GREAT, and not be hung,
Like Abel Young before.
Adult. Not so, my child, 'twill never do;
The Gospel bids be kind."
Boy. Then they that kill, and they that praise,
The Gospel do not mind.
Adult. You know, my child, the Bible says
That you must always do
To other people as you wish
To have them do to you.
Boy. But pa, did Alexander wish
That some strong man should come
And burn his house and kill him too,
And do as he had done?
And everybody calls him great,
For killing people so !-
Well, now, what right had he to kill?
I should be glad to know.
If one should burn the buildings here,
And kill the folks within,
Would anybody call him great
For such a wicked thing?
QUESTIONS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. [Earnest and vigorous.]
Little children, do you pray,
Call on God from day to day?
Do you pray that God may keep,
And protect you when you sleep?
Do you in the morning pray,
God to bless you through the day?
Little children time should spare
Every day for humble prayer.
Little children, do you praise,
And your humble voices raise,
Unto Him in whom each lives,
And who all your blessings gives?
Do you praise Him for your food,
For your clothes, and all that's good,
For His sweet redeeming grace,
For His love to all our race?
Little children, have you read
How the blessed Saviour bled,
That He might your souls restore
Unto Joys for evermore?
How He did ascend on high,
How He lives above the sky,
How He waits your souls to bless,
With the riches of His grace?
Little children, do you love
Christ who dwells in heaven above?
Do you love His precious book?
Do you in it daily look?
Do you love your parents dear,
Teachers do you love to hear?
Little children, you must love
All below and all above.
Little children, you must die;
To your only refuge fly,
If you wish to die in peace,
Oh, then, seek the Saviour's grace;
This will teach you how to die,
This will raise to heaven on high,
This will make you ever live,
THIS WILL CROWNS IMMORTAL GIVE!
THE SABBATH.
[Earnest and cheerful.]
How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles with heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms,-the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large,
And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.
HAIL, SABBATH! THEE I HAIL, THE POOR MAN'S DAY!
On other days the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold,
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on THIS day, inbosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
OF GIVING THANKS TO GOD,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward, earnest eye.
HAIL, SABBATH! THEE I HAIL, THE POOR MAN'S DAY!
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on HIM, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
THAT HEAVEN MAY BE ONE SABBATH WITHOUT END.
SABBATH EVENING.
BY JAMES D. BURNS.
[Earnest and serious.]
Oh, time of tranquil joy and holy feeling!
When over earth God's Spirit from above
Spreads out His wings of love;
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