The Day of Re-appearing.

GIVE WORDS, kind words, to those who err;
Remorse much needs a comforter.

Though in temptation's wiles they fall,
Condemn not-we are sinners all.
With the sweet charity of speech,

Give words that heal, and words that teach.

GIVE THOUGHT, give energy, to themes
That perish not like folly's dreams.
Hark! from the islands of the sea,
The missionary cries to thee:
To aid him on a heathen soil,
Give thoughts, give energy, give toil.

47

THE DAY OF RE-APPEARING.

HE star is not extinguished, when it sets
Upon the dull horizon; it but goes
To shine in other skies, then re-appear
In ours, as fresh as when it first arose.

The river is not lost, when o'er the rock
It pours its flood into the abyss below:
Its scattered force re-gathering from the shock,
It hastens onward, with yet fuller flow.

The bright sun dies not, when the shadowing orb
Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray:

It still is shining on; and soon to us
Will burst undimmed into the joy of day.

The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf

Fade, and are strewed upon the chill sad ground : Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth,

"Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round.

The dewdrop dies not, when it leaves the flower,
And passes upward on the beam of morn ;
It does but hide itself in light on high,

To its loved flower at twilight to return.

The fine gold has not perished, when the flame
Seizes upon it with consuming glow;
In freshened splendour it comes forth anew,
To sparkle on the monarch's throne or brow.

Thus nothing dies, or only dies to live :

Star, stream, sun, flower, the dewdrop, and the gold;

Each goodly thing, instinct with buoyant hope,
Hastes to put on its purer, finer mould.

So in the quiet joy of kindly trust,

We bid each parting saint a brief farewell; Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust To the safe keeping of the silent cell.

Softly within that peaceful resting-place

We place their wearied limbs; and bid the clay Press lightly on them, till the night be past, And the far east give note of coming day.

Thy Neighbour.

The day of re-appearing! how it speeds!

He who is true and faithful speaks the word; Then shall we ever be with those we love

Then shall we be for ever with the Lord.

49

The shout is heard; the archangel's voice goes forth; The trumpet sounds; the dead awake and sing; The living put on glory; one glad band,

They hasten up to meet their coming King.

Short death and darkness! Endless life and light! Short dimming-endless shining, in yon sphere, Where all is incorruptible and pure—

The joy without the pain, the smile without the tear.

T

THY NEIGHBOUR.

HY neighbour? it is he whom thou

Hast

power

to aid and bless,

Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour? 'tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door-
Go thou, and succour him.

E

Thy neighbour? 'tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain-
Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbour? 'tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem ;
Widow and orphan, helpless left—
Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbour? yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave—
Go thou, and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedlessly,
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;
Go, share thy lot with him.

A Spring Concert.

51

A SPRING CONCERT.

HERE is a concert in the trees,
There is a concert on the hill,
There's melody in every breeze,

And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flowerets spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves

In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves

His airy web from bough to bough.
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
Alas that in a scene so fair

The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair,
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal;
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life and every day
Must pain and suffering reveal,

And wretched mourners in decay.
When nations smile o'er battles won,

When banners wave and streamers play,

The lonely mother mourns her son,

Left lifeless on the bloody clay, And the poor widow, all undone, Sees the wild revel with dismay.