Go, tell him how, in dire distress,

With terror hovering o'er thy track,

Like Hagar in the wilderness,

God's angel found, and sent thee back.

And if he chide thee, and complain

That for a season thou didst stray,

Say, it has made thee his again,

Not for a season, but alway.

To him—to me—the Lord did give
This pledge of Mercy's wondrous ways,
That thou shouldst be, poor fugitive,

A theme for hope, and prayer, and praise.

When death shall quench some lov'd one's smile, When soul from soul the grave shall sever,

I'll say, "Like thee they're gone awhile,

To be again my own for ever."

HEBREWS III. 13.

EXHORT ONE ANOTHER DAILY, WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY."

THE weary man,

whose work is done,

Looks calmly on yon setting sun;

His home he'll reach ere fades the light,

And shadows deepen into night.

But I have wasted all my day;
Was sent, yet loiter'd on the way;

Purpos'd, and still my work delayed,
Till o'er me steals life's evening shade.

Yet, though I toil in haste and fear,

And tremble, Lord, thy voice to hear,

Turn not the labourer away,

Who comes while it is call'd to-day.

REVELATION VI. 11.

"AND WHITE ROBES WERE GIVEN UNTO EVERY ONE OF THEM; AND IT WAS SAID UNTO THEM, THAT THEY SHOULD REST YET FOR A LITTLE SEASON, UNTIL THEIR FELLOW-SERVANTS ALSO AND THEIR BRETHREN, THAT SHOULD BE KILLED AS THEY WERE, SHOULD BE FULFILLED."

THAT SNOW-white robe to thee is given-
The Lord has deckt his own for heaven;

And art thou waiting still, till we
Are ready to go on with thee?

Alas for us! without, within,
Are spread the fatal toils of sin,
To steal away the hope that threw
Its light so sweetly over you.

But O! how gladly would I drink
Thy bitter cup, if I may think
That when its bitterness is o'er,

We then shall meet to part no more.

Yet, for a little season, rest―

Sin cannot stain thy snowy vest;
And Jesus bids thee rest, till he

Has made us meet to go with thee.

REVELATION XXI. 4.

66 AND GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL TEARS FROM THEIR EYES."

WHY should the Christian mother sigh

To see her darlings fade?

The unbeliever asks thee why

Art thou of death afraid?

Is this thy hope, thy holy love?
The love that casts out fear?

The hope that dreams of worlds above?
O whence that burning tear?

But, mourner, weep-thy dear Lord wept

O'er one beloved friend;

Sorrow-yet not as though they slept.

The sleep that knows no end.