And lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame. The thought was small- its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill, It shed its radiance far adown, A nameless man, amid a crowd It raised a brother from the dust, germ! O fount! O word of Love! We were but little at the first, ONLY ONE LIFE: "Tis not for man to trifle! life is brief And sin is here. Our age is but the falling of a leaf, We have no time to sport away the hours; Not many lives, but only one have we,— One, only one ;— How sacred should that one life ever be,That narrow span ! Day after day filled up with blessed toil, Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. HYMN FOR AN INFANT CLASS. A giddy lamb one afternoon Had from the fold departed; But night and day he went his way And when he saw it fainting lie, He brought it to his home of rest, And thus the Saviour will receive OUR REST. "The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us."-Rom. viii: 18. My feet are worn and weary with the march O'er the rough road, and up the steep hill-side; Oh! city of our God, I fain would see Thy pastures green, where peaceful waters glide. My hands are weary too, with toiling on, My garments, travel-worn and stained with dust, My eyes are weary looking at the sin, All — all are clothed again with thy new birth. My heart is weary of its own deep sin Sinning, repenting, sinning still again; When shall my soul thy glorious presence feel, And find, dear Saviour, it is free from stain? Patience, poor soul, the Saviour's feet were worn; The Saviour's heart and hands were weary, too; His garments stained, and travel-worn, and old; His vision blinded with a pitying dew. Love thou the path of sorrow that he trod; Thy glorious walls-home of the loved and blest. WATCH, WATCH, MOTHER. Mother! watch the little feet Climbing o'er the garden wall, Bounding through the busy street, Ranging cellar, shed and hall; Never count the moments lost, Never mind the time it cost Little feet will go astray, Guide them, mother, while you may. Mother! watch the little hand Picking berrics by the way, Making houses in the sand, Tossing on the fragrant hay. Never dare the question ask, 66 Why to me this weary task?" These same little hands may prove Mother! watch the little tongue |