The narrow thought, the low desire
That, grovelling 'mid the earthy mire,
Ne'er feels the throbbing pulse
Of onward, upward, high endeavour
From duty's path that swerveth never.

What theme would'st thou choose? In minor cadence, softly low,

I'd sing the care, the sin;
The drama old of human woe
In sympathetic tones should flow,

And back might gently win

Some wandering soul from error's blight To the serener, purer light.

What theme would'st thou choose?

On harp of starry thoughts I'd raise
Rich harmonies and grand;

An anthem pure of holy praise

Should echo through this trackless maze,
Like song from angel-land.

Where souls sublime before have trod,
I'd sing Redemption, Truth, and God.

TRAGIC.

Out in the smiling meadows,
Beside the limpid pool,

A youth and maid were straying
On a summer evening cool;
For her hand he was entreating
In impassioned undertones,

With a speech prepared most carefully,
Backed by impromptu groans.

"Ah, Jeannie! if you only knew
The strength of my emotion !
Oh! give me something great to do
To show my heart's devotion.
For thee, I'd scale the Alpine heights,
Regardless of shoe leather;

And hunt the chamois from its crag,
If it only had a tether.

"Down through the surging ocean deep I'd dive for pearls rare,

A quenching task,-but for thy sake

I'd greater perils dare;

Or, on the glorious battlefield,

Fired by heroic glow,

I'd fiercely lisp thy blessed name,

While flying from the foe.

"For thee"-but here the swain stopped short

His glowing love oration.
No wonder that his ardent mind
Was filled with perturbation;
For, rushing at the tearing speed
Which prudent folks beware,
An angry bull was coming
With intensely bullying air.

Our hero thought the choice between
His evils, very cruel,-

On the horns of a dilemma,

Or the horns of Monsieur Bull.
The latter thought was rather much
For even his high valour;
So, with a quickly beating heart,
And face of sickly pallor,

He turned in most ungraceful haste,
And fled in anguished fear:
In nimble style, he leapt a stile
Conveniently near.

On came the bull at charging pace

To where the maiden stood,

Then, struck perhaps with brute surprise
At her calm attitude,

He paused, and slow regarded her

With critical survey,

Then turned, with untold chivalry,
And went his grassy way.

The sequel that remains to tell
Is passing sad, I ween:
No more together, straying fond,
That youth and maid are seen.
But a grim, sarcastic spinster,
Agitates for Woman's Rights,
And sneers at masculine courage
Upon dizzy platform heights;
And a gloomy visaged bachelor
Still haunts the limpid pool,
And ever mutters something

With the soft refrain of-"bull."

REV. ROBERT SANDERS, B.D.,

S a native of Dumfriesshire, and studied in the University of Edinburgh, of which he is an M.A., with honours in Philosophy, and a B.D. He was ordained at Livingstone, Linlithgowshire, in 1875, and has been Free Church minister of Melrose since October, 1878. Since his student days he has now and then written verses, and these have appeared in the newspapers, in the Christian Treasury, and various other religious magazines. Mr Sanders has contributed several very thoughtful prose articles in the British and Foreign Evangelical Review, the Christian Treasury, and other magazines. He is, however, too much occupied with ministerial labours to allow him to devote any special attention to poetry, except as an occasional vehicle of thought and feeling.

In his poetry, his thoughts appear to revolve in an atmosphere of piety, and his heart ever beats warmly to its sacred intonations. In the poems we have perused we find a peculiar gentleness of heart, and, breathing all through them, such Christianmindedness as we prize in Cowper-they are penetrated and quickened by deep godliness, and by what has been called "spiritual Christianity."

'NEATH THE SNOW.

One by one from out the household they are gathering home above,

The true of heart we trust in, the dear ones whom we love;
Only lost to sight a little while, as those who haste before
To give a pleasant greeting when the others reach the door.
Shall we mourn that they outstrip us in the race we all must

run.

Or grieve that while we struggle on their prize is earlier won-
O, we miss them, sadly miss them from our little group below:
But their graves are close together, where they rest beneath the

snow.

X

Passed the first from earth in boyhood, when the life was strong and bright,

And hope flung o'er years of promise radiant hues of silvery

light

Eager eyes that opened widely lit with fancy's sudden gleams, Dawning thoughts that bore above them the rich glow of childish dreams,

Like the sweet springtide of nature, 'waked too soon by balmy breath

Into bud and song, then shrivelled by the icy grasp of death.
To me it seems but yesterday, though twenty years are fled,
Since the smiling tears of April wept a brother 'mong the dead.

Then a second sadder parting-looked for long, yet quick at last

When autumn shed its withered leaves in grief o'er summer past;

A weary life and fragile, to affection doubly dear,

As it faded like the tender flowers in the waning of the year.
How I mind me of her gentle ways, and patience under pain,
Of that gladsome look when spring had come, and earth was
bright again,

The trembling footprint on the grass!
Yet 'twas a greater joy
To rest where fell the wind-toss'd leaves-a mother with her
boy.

Yet once more, when years full many had strewed joys and woes abroad,

And death's tearful vale was lighted with the calm sunshine of God,

When old memories sweet and fragrant had lost every touch of pain,

Came the message from the Master to the dear homestead again.

It was spring time wooing summer with a coronet of bloom,
And draping with its wilding flowers the entrance of the tomb,
When she slept in simple faith and love of Him who came to

save,

And the green grass and the daisies wrapt a sister in her grave.

Still one other to the number of the vanished ones from sight, Not hidden by the shadows here, but by that upper light; Missed and mourned as those are ever who, with humble, artless zeal,

Seek the Saviour's highest honour, and the world's truest weal. With the hoar of years grown silvery, while the heart was

childlike still,

Life, like Nature, lay in fetters, and the He had known earth's calm and quiet, breast

Ere we laid him 'neath the crisp white

rest.

drift was on the hillbut a sweeter filled his

snow-a father gone to

Sacred ministry of sorrow! tears that soothe the aching eyes
As they gaze into the grave's deep gloom or glory of the skies;
Solemn thoughts that grieve, yet gladden, as we count those
near and dear

Who are gathering there to meet us
here !

as we grow more lonely

Less to live for-more to die for! So earth's home-life fades

away,

And the other home in heaven seems more real from day to day. O, we miss them, but we mourn not, for the blessed dead we know

Have passed upward to the glory, though their graves are 'neath the snow!

UNNEEDED SERVICE.

O tender love that comes too late
With perfumes sweet!

Ere dawn the grave hath oped its gate,
The winding sheet

Is thrown aside, and angel-voices tell

The risen Christ hath vanquished death and hell.

What need of spices for the tomb
That lacks its prey?

Or human eyes to light the gloom
That pass'd away

In blaze of glory!-vain the ministry
In death for One who lives no more to die.

Cares he not for the nard and myrrh
Though needed not,

A useless gift each visitor

In love has brought?

Is it a waste of fragrance kindly meant,

Like hers the twelve so strangely thought mis-spent?

Ah no! the heart was in the deed

And gave it worth,

For love recks not of wealth or need
In heaven or earth,

But pours in lavish fulness all its hoard
A grateful offering to its gracious Lord.

The risen One mark'd those who came
To weep His loss,

And sweetly swathe the mangled frame

Rent by the Cross;

And bless'd each heart that did whate'er it could
To prove its love, and show its gratitude.

He needs no work of ours, no toils

Or small or great ;