"Twas my Lays of the Kirk and Covenant. WILL YE ALSO GO AWAY? No, Saviour, no! THOU art our perfect Teacher and our Guide; Delusive and fast-changing views we find ; The myriad forms of error that abound, In darkness and uncertainty through life, Our names as thy disciples have enrolled : Thy gentle counsels gladly we receive ;— Are even love's resolves when sorely tried: With magic power our thoughts and feelings sway; Amidst Thy little band may ever stay. *Handsel, from the Dutch "Hansel"-a first gift + Propine-offering, or sacrifice-its etymology is not obvious. For whither could we go? Eternal bliss is linked with faith in Thee; H. M. W. ST. MARY'S WELL. [THIS stream issues from Ludley's cave at Moor-park, near Farnham; it is unfailing in summer as in winter. It formerly supplied the Abbey of Waverley with water. A stone basin which the stream kept constantly filled, once adorned the centre of the cave, but it is now destroyed.] BEAUTIFUL stream! thou art flowing still, Gone are the pilgrims who used to tell And the screech-owl shrieks in the ivied dome As thou wert in the days when monks prayed here. The wild bird comes to drink at thy spring, In the blushing dawn, ere she plumes her wing; Ere he passes by to the ancient mill, Or the school that crowns the neighbouring hill. Beautiful stream! though change hath been here, Yet thou wearest still the same bright smile When round thee echoed the convent chime. Which blesses our sphere from realms above; Which streams forth exhaustlessly, constant and pure, ANNIE WHITE. SACRED SONG. "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal."-Matthew vi. 19-20. THROUGH many a guarded fortress' tower The plunderer's steel hath passed, Oh, child of earth! Nursed amid storm and fear, If thou hast aught of precious worth, * To the bright city's golden halls No spoiler hath found way, And there, on flower and vesture falls Nor mildew, nor decay; Oh, child of grace! Born to those mansions fair; Where time and change may leave no trace, Store thy heart's treasure there. * Rev. xxi. 23. MARY S. THE REMEMBRANCE. My mother!-when that word last fell, If Christ and heaven be gained at last? Its beam for life's beclouded day. "Musician of the fields," (on soaring wing, Clear is thy native song— When far above the loftiest mountain height, And thy rich mid-day strain, Falls on the ear, all blithe and joyously, Resounding on the meads and silent plain, Till thy soft tones of earnest melody, Seem filling all the air: And when the sun's last beam, Tinges with gold the whispering forest trees, ANNIE WHITE. |