And now I say,
Thy will be done;
My will with Thine make one,
Father, I pray.
These earthly things
Fill not my heart;
Thou alone fountain art
Of its deep springs.
Thy love is best-
Give me but this;
All else is weariness-
Thy love is rest.
FEMALE poet of much promise, Margaret Crawford was born in February 1833, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. The daughter of an operative gardener, she has hitherto prosecuted knowledge under difficulties. In 1855 she published a small volume of poems, under the title of 'Rustic Lays,' which has deservedly been well received.
ANGELS WHISPERS.
In those hours when thought is creeping
O'er my heart and through my brain,
Feelings, which have long been sleeping,
Waken into life again.
Blissful visions flit before me;
Hope is kindled in my breast;
Holy voices, breathing o'er me,
Tell me where to find my rest.
Heralds bright, of heaven's own sending,
From the eternal realms of day;
Angel-forms are round me bending,
And methinks I hear them say:
'Child of earth, O cease thy sighing—
Lift thy tearful eye above!
See the joy before thee lying
In yon glorious land of love.
'Think not thou to bask in pleasure
In a changing world like this;
Heavenward turn, and search for treasure
'Mid the golden fields of bliss.
'Look not on the past with sorrow,
Though it shadowed be in gloom;
Darkest night has still a morrow-
Winter past, the flowers will bloom.
'So with thee; though now enshrouded
In the dreary night of dread,
Soon shall peace, free and unclouded,
Burst in brightness o'er thy head.
'Not in anger art thou stricken;
Murmur not against the rod;
Every wound is meant to quicken
And to lead thee to thy God.'
Thus they speak in whispered voices,
Till my spirit-yearnings cease;
Till my humbled heart rejoices
In those promises of peace.
Mortal thoughts are all forbidden;
Earth, and all that's earthly dies;
Glories, far with Jesus hidden,
Draw me upward to the skies.
ANE CROSS BELL is the daughter of James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in Glasgow. At an early period she contributed numerous poetical compositions to the Edinburgh Literary Journal, which were received with much favour. Her separate publications consist of a volume of tales and sketches, entitled the Piety of Daily Life; a volume of lyric poetry, named April Hours; Woman's History; and Linda, or Beauty and Genius, a poem published in 1859. In 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and has since resided chiefly at Glasgow.
Go when the morning shineth,
Go when the noon is bright,
Go when the day declineth,
Go in the hush of night;
Go with pure mind and feeling,
Fling earthly thought away,
And, in thy chamber kneeling,
Do thou in secret pray.
Remember all who love thee,
All who are loved by thee;
Pray, too, for those that hate thee,
If any such there be.
Then for thyself, in meekness,
A blessing humbly claim;
And link with each petition
Thy great Redeemer's name.
Or if 'tis e'er denied thee
In solitude to pray,
Should holy thoughts come o'er thee,
When friends are round thy way;
Even then the silent breathing
Of thy spirit raised above,
May reach His throne of glory,
Who is mercy, truth, and love!
Oh! not a joy or blessing
With this can we compare,
The power that he hath given us
To pour our souls in prayer!
Whene'er thou pin'st in sadness,
Before his footstool fall,
And remember, in thy gladness,
His grace who gave thee all.
LIFE AND DEATH.
IT is a solemn thing to live!
To feel we bear within
A perpetuity of years
Soon as those years begin;
To know eternal power hath placed
In this, our mortal shrine,
An essence kindred with His own, Mysterious and divine;
A mind, a soul, a priceless part,
With boundless wishes rife ;
Ah! well, bewildered, may we start
And ponder, what is life!
It is a solemn thing to live!
To feel how sin hath flung
Such deadly blight o'er souls that once
Pure from their Maker sprung.
So dark our guilt that nought could wash
Away the crimson dye,
But uncreated Love must bear
A death of agony !
Most wonderful, most fearful truth!
Whose faith alone imparts
The hope of pardon and of peace
To self-condemning hearts.
It is a solemn thing to live!
To see how, day by day,
All that is beautiful and dear
Is passing swift away:
The accents kind, the looks of love,
The friends that shared youth's hours,
Are, one by one, fast gathering hence,
Cut down like autumn flowers!
What is there breathes and fadeth not?
Our time is waning too-
To all that gladdens here, or grieves,
Soon must we bid adieu.
It is a solemn thing to live!
More solemn still to die-
To pass the narrow gate of time,
And live eternally!
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