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And its streets they were all paved with gold ;
And diamonds most pure to behold.
And I thought, will this splendour e'er last ?
And no shadow across it is cast?
And, oh, as I gazed on this marvellous place,
Bright beings came into my view;
They could not be earth-born, I knew.
Rich sounds on the zephyrs came near ;
Throughout that large city so clear.
A touch on my shoulder I felt;
And in awe, and with trembling I knelt. He raised me, and said, “Come in hither, my child !
Why stand you without these great gates ? Come, enter our city, and share in our joys; Why, surely, you'll never content you with toys,
When the well-spring of happiness waits !
No sorrow, no suffering comes near ;
And nothing that's earth-born comes here.
The Pearl of Great Price to be worn : Each one too is purchased-redeemed from the world, By the Lord of the city, whose banner unfurled
Is a Cross, which is hard to be borne.”'
“ Oh! would I could enter this city so fair,
And join in your anthems so sweet ;
And I dare not pollute your fair street."
“ With your sins you have nothing to do ;
In Jesus, now looks upon you.
Remember the Blood has been spilt :
And for ever removed is your guilt.”
Such a fulness in Christ I'd ne'er seen ;
And left me alone in my dream.
H. D. L
Two Little Waifs, and the Way they Drifted.
Own a long, dark alley whence diverge certain ill
looking little streets, with small passages ending somewhere in a confusion of yards and ware
houses near the banks of the Thames, dived a thin, squalid-looking youth, breathless, as if escaping pursuit, and after leaning awhile against the wall of a dilapidated tenement, he sank crouching to the ground.
The dingy neighbourhood seemed deserted for the present, but by nightfall would swarm with vice and vileness, in which no one, excepting such as were considered free of the precincts by reason of membership in some form of iniquity, would venture to intrude.
Yet before the refugee could recover breath sufficient to gather himself up to continue his flight, down the same alley came the light, brisk step of a tall, handsome, welldressed youth, his intelligent face beaming with eager interest, and his hand instantly laid upon that of the dirty ragged creature at his feet. Thus Walter and David, in contrast stronger than ever, met once more.
“ Once more I have found you, Davy,” said the young man; you cannot hide out of my search, you see.”
“Wal, an' aint yer a fool for yer pains ? D’yer see where yer've got to this time?" surlily asked David. “'Spose I just gives a whistle, an' who'll ever find yer again ?"
“I know it all, Davy; but I know, too, that you won't do that. I've never forgotten the boy who found me a broom and a crossing when I hadn't a friend in the world. I've searched for you, and found you many a time, Davy, in hope to get you to give up this way of life; but now I'm come for the last time.”
“Eh ! is yer now? give up old Davy at last, then !"
“ I'm going abroad, Davy. I've got charge of a lot of young men from our institution who are going to work on a fine estate, where they'll get homes and wages and honest work, and I'm to see them settled, and then find my sister Maggie. But what are you going to do, David ? you don't look comfortable.”
“Comfortable !” ejaculated David, scornfully, “why, I'm goin' to do anythink as turns up that I've a mind tostarving to-day, thieving and supper to-night; no good sweeping crossings now, the gemmen allays asking why one ain't at work regʻlar. They knows a lot about it! Why, I might get work reg'lar a looking after their plate baskets afore they knows what's what.” And the boy chuckled with something of his former glee.
“David," said Walter mournfully, “I could have a hearty cry over you this minute. I've prayed for you, I've followed you in your sin and wretchedness where nothing else could have taken me, and nothing has kept me from hoping, til!
Must I give you up, David ? Will you be the devil's child for ever? Perhaps I shall never see you any more. But, Davy, dear old Davy, don't forget that I've loved you which fell to their lot in Combe Hadley. A certain degree of want and hardship fell to the share of all, while too many of them knew what brutal treatment and bitter words meant after the Saturday evening visits of their husbands to the Brown Cow.
Widow Baynham was getting old, and dependent for her support on her son Harry. He was about eighteen, and, on the whole, careful of his mother's comfort. All the elder children had gone out into the world in search of work, or service, except two, who had married and settled in the village ; so that the old home was now shared by Harry and his mother alone. Harry was not an agricultural labourer, but a mason, and, as such, ranked a little higher in the social scale than most of his companions. But he was utterly ignorant and uneducated. With great trouble he could put together a few letters, but the labour was more than the pleasure ; consequently he seldom opened a book, except to gaze and wonder at the pictures; and never, a paper. Very few of these latter, however, found their way to Combe Hadley; there was no school in the parish, and the religious ministrations were confined to one short service, each Sabbath afternoon, in the little church-a service which most of the audience yawned through, as a matter of duty. Having said thus much by way of introduction, you will readily understand how benighted a place Combe Hadley was, and how it came to pass that Harry Baynham was an ignorant, uneducated, rough youth.
Harry strolled leisurely across the green, hands in pockets, and came up with the crowd. Mr. Howard had just concluded his short prayer by the time he arrived-purposely short, so as not to drive any of his listeners away—and commenced to read. With clear ringing tones he read out a chapter from the sacred story, laying peculiar stress upon the invitation, “Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;" for from these words he intended to deliver a short address. The Combe Hadley people listened in decorous silence to the reading
of the Scriptures—perhaps because so many of them were unable to read it themselves—consequently the sound was infrequent enough to be welcome. Then Mr. Howard gave out, two lines at a time, the good old hymn, “Rock of Ages,” and three-fourths of the group joined in singing. Thus having prepared the way for his message, he, with ready tact, requested the men to protect him from the annoyances of the younger portion of the audience-a request which instantly converted each man into something like a special constable for the nonce, and immensely gratified their self-esteem.
The text was the wondrous invitation recorded above; and Mr. Howard pressed it home solemnly and kindly upon each conscience. To the young, to the fathers and mothers bearing the burden of life, to the old men and women, drooping beneath the load of infirmity, the evangelist commended this generous offer; and so earnest and winning was he, that ere he had done, even Harry Baynham stood, all attention, drinking in the wonderful words. His freeand-easy companion, Jim Noble, nudged him to be going; but no, Harry wanted to hear all that the preacher had to say, and he stayed till the last word was spoken.
Come on, now," said Noble. "I see three or four of our chums going into the Brown Cow. They be up for a lark. Let us go.'
“Let them go," replied Harry, angrily. “I'll stay just as long as I like.”
Jim was silent. The concluding hymn was that precious one commencing, “There is a fountain filled with blood;" and Harry, though rather out of time, inasmuch as he was ignorant of psalm-singing, joined lustily in it. Then fol. lowed the closing prayer“-short, but earnest-and the benediction; and the little assembly dispersed. Mr. Howard, after thanking those who had assisted him by maintaining order, bade them farewell, and went home, to pray over the seed he had sown that day.
Harry Baynham did not go home, but he went, instead,