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'Twas my first handsel* and propinet to heaven ;
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod-
Precious His comforts! once an infant given
And offered, with two turtle dovest to God.

Lays of the Kirk and Covenant.

WILL YE ALSO GO AWAY ?

No, Saviour, no!
Thou art our perfect Teacher and our Guide ;
Truth's

pure and tranquil stream can only flow Where thou art present-keep us at Thy side!

For, everywhere around,
Delusive and fast-changing views we find ;

The myriad forms of error that abound,
Bewilder and mislead the anxious mind.

Men
grope
their

way,
In darkness and uncertainty through life,

Because they follow not that guiding ray,
Which shines serenely through all gloom and strife.

But gracious Saviour! we
Our names as thy disciples have enrolled :

We listen in meek confidence to Thee,
And learn the mighty truths Thou dost unfold.

With loving heart,
Thy gentle counsels gladly we receive ;-

Oh never, never from Thee will we part-
Though all forsook, still closely would we cleave.

Alas, alas ! how weak
Are even love's resolves when sorely tried :

O Saviour ! that restraining grace we seek,
Which will not let us wander from Thy side.

May thy sweet voice
With magic power our thoughts and feelings sway ;

That we, with eager and unwavering choice
Amidst Thy little band may ever stay.

* Handsel, from the Dutch “Hansel”-a first gift + Propine-offering, or sacrifice--its etymology is not obvious. # Levit. xii. 2, 6. Luke üi. 24.

For whither could we go ?
Eternal bliss is linked with faith in Thee;

Oh teach us all that we require to know:
And guide us safely o'er life's troublous sea !

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, onee adorned the centre of the cave, but it is now destroyed.]

BEAUTIFUL stream! thou art flowing still,
Murmuring along at thine own sweet will,
Through the leaf-strewn copse, and tangled brake,
Where the whispering trees soft music make.
Now thou art hidden by wreathing flowers,
That haunt thy banks in the summer hours;
Anon, thou springest again to sight,
Flashing with joy in the glad sun light,
Like a merry child in sportive play,
Thou boundest in beauty and mirth away.
Gone are the pilgrims who used to tell
Their beads, as they knelt beside the well;
Gone are the friars who used to bring
Their
cups

to fill at thy limpid spring;
And the priests lie low who bowed to bless
Thy sparkling waters to holiness;
And the screech-owl shrieks in the ivied dome
Of the ruin grey which was once their home;
Yet, thou art as fair, and bright, and clear,
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;
And the bright-eyed squirrel feeds her brood
On thy banks in the cool green solitude;
And the village child with rosy lip,
Kneels down, thy sparkling tide to sip,

Ere he passes by to the ancient mill,
Or the school that crowns the neighbouring hill.
He loves thee well and his favorite spot
For play, is thine arched and spacious grot.
Beautiful stream! though change hath been here,
And Time, the destroyer, made desert and drear
The halls of the old monastic pile;
Yet thou wearest still the same bright smile
As thou didst in days of olden time,
When round thee echoed the convent chime.
A type art thou of that heavenly love
Which blesses our sphere from realms above;
Which streams forth exhaustlessly, constant and pure,
Unchangeably steadfast-unfailingly sure.

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

werden
The plunderer's steel hath passed,
And moth and blight o'er regal bower,
Corruption's sign have cast; 9th

Oh, child of earth!' orta stunt unft
Nursed amid storm and fear, TE HOJE

If thou hast aught of precious worth, 13 in
Hoard not such treasure here. quiltepe

plena lwo-thigal
To the bright city's * golden halls

No spoiler hath found way, is to work with
And there, on flower ar

and vesture falls

шоу" тра
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.

MARY S.

[graphic]

Rev. xxi. 23.

THE REMEMBRANCE.
My mother!—when that word last fell,

As o'er thine aged form 1 hung,
Thine eyes essay'd the fond farewell,

Unpitying death denied thy tongue.
The gasping breath, the struggling pray'r,

The vale of darkness, all are past;
Ah! what avails, or grief, or care,

If Christ and heaven be gained at last?
Methinks in many a mournful hour

Thy spirit companies my way;
A deathless union left to pour

Its beam for life's beclouded day.
The hope that cheer'd thy path below,

This bleeding heart would meekly wear;
Till turning from a world of woe,

With thee, thy peaceful rest I share.

EBEN.

THE SKY LARK. Companion of the dawn,

“ Musician of the fields," (on soaring wing, Who lov'st to spring from earth, ere yet the fawn,

Hath left her greenwood shade, and sweetly sing,
High in the realms of space,)
Clear is thy native song-
When far above the loftiest mountain height,

'Mid the rose-tinted clouds thou skim’st along, Watching the sun dispel the shades of night,

With his effulgent rays. 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,

Thy tuneful throat sends forth a vesper hymn,
Which floats upon the balmy evening breeze,
Like the sweet sounds of prayer.

ANNIE WHITE.

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