They give their best—0 tenfold shame

On us their fallen progeny,
Who sacrifice the blind and lame-

Who will not wake or fast with Thee !

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water

Isaiah xliv. 4.

courses.

LESSONS sweet of spring returning,

Welcome to the thoughtful heart ! May I call ye sense or learning,

Instinct pure, or heav'n-taught art ?
Be your title what it

may,
Sweet the lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,

To the inward ear devout,
Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning

Your transporting chords ring out.

Malachi i. 8.

Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,

Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory

Teaches truth to wandering men: Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing

Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moist and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipp'd with vernal red, And her kindly flower display'd Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,

Patiently she droops awhile,

E

But when showers and breezes hail her,

Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn Contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.

Where the thickest boughs are twining

Of the greenest darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining-
All

may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER

EPIPHANY.

Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine, and when men have well drunk then that which is worse : but thou hast kept the good wine until now. St. John ii. 10.

THE heart of childhood is all mirth:

We frolic to and fro
As free and blithe, as if on earth

Were no such thing as woe.

But if indeed with reckless faith

We trust the flattering voice,
Which whispers, “ Take thy fill ere death,

Indulge thee and rejoice ;"

Too surely, every setting day,

Some lost delight we mourn,

The flowers all die along our way,

Till we, too, die forlorn.

Such is the world's gay garish feast,

In her first charming bowl Infusing all that fires the breast,

And cheats th' unstable soul.

And still, as loud the revel swells,

The fever'd pulse beats higher, Till the sear'd taste from foulest wells

Is fain to slake its fire.

Unlike the feast of heavenly love

Spread at the Saviour's word
For souls that hear his call, and prove

Meet for his bridal board.

Why should we fear, youth's draught of joy,

If pure, would sparkle less? Why should the cup the sooner cloy,

Which God hath deign’d to bless ?

For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen

Along each bounding vein,