OUR LORD, FEEDING THE MULTITUDE.

BY MRS. O. M. P. LORD.

OUR Saviour sought the peaceful solitude;

As wont, when sore oppressed with coming ill :
As when the tempter baneful shadow cast,
Before the hideous form appeared, or 'neath
A weight of present grief subdued, as now.
He stood alone; where oft the moaning air,
That bathed his fevered brow, had borne afar,

To thousand list'ning ears, that moving cry,
"The Lord is coming, make his pathway straight."

The sorrowing echoes, loving erst the sound,

Were mute, though 'mid their haunts, the Lord now stood; And all the waste in solemn quiet lay.

Yet lo! from out the city walls, there came

A host! and soon the lonely place was thronged

With varied life. The blind, with timid step,
Came near; and, borne by careful hands, the lame;
While here and there, amid the crowd, there gleamed
Some pallid face, now bright with risen hope.
The Master gave no sign of troubled thought,
Nor wailed the banished hour of solitude;
But went about as though the day were set
Apart, a day of days for suff'ring man.

For aught his bearing proved, they might have been
Invited guests; in truth, what need had they
Of more than this: "Ye heavy laden, come."

Night came, and still they tarried, heeding not
Their common, daily wants. Why linger they?
The bounding blood, which crept with tardy pace
For years, doth urge
the renovated frame

To scale the inviting hill, and search the vale.
The eye, first open now on rarest forms

Of beauty, more than ages can evolve,

Must crave a wider range; and yet, oh, Earth! What sight is fairer, 'mid thy lovely scenes, Than goodness lending aid to lowly need? Yet still they lingered, willing captives held; Nor thought how fast and heavy fell the dew On those who heretofore the gentle breeze Might seek in vain. Not so his chosen friends; An earthly kingdom ever in their view, They ne'er lost sight of outward good and ill; And therefore fain had sent the multitude To buy an evening meal; but Jesus said, "They need not hence depart; give them to eat." They answered, "Master, we have only these; Five loaves and two small fishes;" meagre fare For hungered men. Our Saviour took the loaves "And looking up to heaven, he blessed and brake," Then gave his wond'ring friends the food; a type Of greater works.

It seemed a mighty thing

To feed, with scant supply, five thousand men! And yet their future toil exceeded this.

For ages past, the soul of man had pined

On loathsome food; had sought, ay! seeketh now,
With savage thirst, for blood; mistaking, oft,
The flush of gain for ruddy glow of health.
It seeks in pleasure's brimming glass its life,
And finds a deadly serpent coiled therein.
It heaps up wealth; yet stands attenuate,
With barn and storehouse full, before its God.
And all the while, its own sweet nourishment,
In waste that seemeth barren of all good,
Forgotten lies, or scorned with impious pride.

Oh! man of selfish cares, from out these walls
Which fast inclose the fretted soul, come thou!
With fainting heart, athirst for martial fame,
With limbs enfeebled 'mid the weary chase
Of pleasure, fleeting like the wave which bears,
For one brief moment, heaven's unsullied type,
And vision seared with burning gold, seek thou
The desert place—the vast and trackless waste
Of desolate Humanity; for there

The Master waits, too oft, alone; and there
The bread thy starving spirit long hath craved.
How oft, unlooked for, ay, unwelcome, too,

From out the angles 'mid thy daily walks,

Thine hungered soul hath stood, with outstretched hand

Importunate for food, which only falls

Where dearth of all things fair hath made,

Where Eden might have bloomed, a wilderness.

Already there are bruised and bleeding feet;
And eyes, which never raised to heaven, reflect

The blackest gloom of hell. Already there,
To highest model consecrate, are hands
Which only need the prompting Spirit's might
To mould the world anew-as when she smiled,
To God's approving word, a glad response.
Draw near, thou man of selfish cares! and mark
That noble group. The Master breaking bread,
And they, to whom the rev'rent world might bow
In humble servitude, as least 'mid those
Who long have grovelled 'neath thy spurning foot!
Draw near, for thou art poor and faint like those;
Ay, more debased; for, take thy false support,
And thou shalt find, in lower deep, thy plane.
Yet come, and satisfy thy famished soul,
And then about thee look. Thy raptured gaze
On earth conformed anew to heaven shall rest;
As varying spheres the All Pervading Light
Reflect, with placid beam illuming space,
Or splendor most intense, e'en so the weak
Are nestling close beside the strong, unawed.
The timid resting on some valiant heart,
Unterrified; while here are clasping hands
Which erst, in deadliest hate, unsheathed the sword;
And all, as brethren met on festive day,
In holiest love and peace, partaking food-
That bread which Jesus brake so long ago.

A VISION.

BY THE LATE DR. CURRIE.

"Sunt geminæ somni portæ, quarum altera fertur

Cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris."-VIRGIL.

As I was passing a month of the delightful summer of 1780 at the ancient seat of my family in North Wales, I one morning awoke, after a disturbed night, soon after daybreak; and the shutters of my windows being open, the light shone on the bed where I lay. Not finding myself disposed to return to sleep, I opened my curtains, and resolved to indulge myself in that listless musing, that half delirium, which is often so grateful to the mind. A sycamore tree, which, according to the tradition of our family, was planted towards the middle of the last century by my great-grandfather, grew on the outside of my window: its branches, driven by the wind, were moving slowly backwards and forwards before the glass, and in the almost dead stillness around me, I could hear the noise of the breeze passing through its leaves. This tree was an acquaintance of mine from my infancy, but I had never before seen it in so interesting a point of view. The whistling of the wind, the movement of the branches, which seemed almost voluntary, and the alternate shades of light and darkness thrown by this movement on the floor, gave it altogether a liveliness which struck me forcibly, and it required but little aid from the imagination to bestow on it consciousness and animation. "How old, and yet how vigorous," said I, "is this beautiful sycamore! A hundred summers have shed their dews on its leaves; and a hundred more shall