The preachin'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written, I know it was n't read; He had n't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. The sermon was n't flowery; 't was simple gospel truth; The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down into the finest pews; And-though I can't see very well — I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off and heaven very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no end.' I hope to meet that minister- that congregation too blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray, Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won; JOHN H. YATES. THE FOOL'S PRAYER. THE royal feast was done; the king The jester doffed his cap and bells, He bowed his head, and bent his knee "No pity, Lord, could change the heart ""Tis by our guilt the onward sweep Of truth and light, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. "These clumsy feet, still in the mire, The ill-time truth that we have kept- Who knows how grandly it had rung? "Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but thou, O Lord, off Be merciful to me, a fool!" The room was hushed. In silence rose E. R. SILL WHAT IS HIS CREED? HE left a load of anthracite In front of a poor widow's door When the deep snow, frozen and white, Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor. That was his deed! He did it well! "What was his creed?" I cannot tell! Blessed "in his basket and his store," In each good task. His charity was like the snow- "What was his creed?" a pall He had great faith in loaves of bread As well as pray. In works he did not put his trust; A friend was he. "What was his creed?" He told not me. He put his trust in Heaven, and he Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. For life is brief; TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. By thine own soul's law learn to live, Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer, Keep thou thy soul-sworn steadfast oath, Fix on the future's goal thy face, And thou mayst look back from thy place The Spectator. PAKENHAM BEATTY. THE HINDOO SCEPTIC. I THINK till I weary with thinking, How knowest thou aught of God, Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, Can the finite the Infinite search? For aught that my eye can discern, Your God is what you think good, You preach to me to be just, And this is his realm, you say; You say that he loveth mercy, That he hateth the shedder of blood, And he slayeth us every one. You say I must have a meaning, So must dung, and its meaning is flowers; For lives that are greater than ours? When the fish swims out of the water, The Spectator. SOME SWEET DAY. INTO all lives some rain must fall, Or fall like fire from an aching heart. Over all paths some clouds must lower, Or entering the heart with their bitter sting. Bowing the form in its lofty height Into all hands some duty 's thrust; God's dear sunlight comes streaming down, The Presbyterian. LEWIS J. BATES. |