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“Then I will drop," said the trusting Flake ;

“But bear in mind that the choice I make
Is not on the dew in the flowers to awake,

Or the mist that shall pass with the morning :
For things of thyself, they expire with thee;
But those that are lent from on high, like me,
They rise and will live, from thy dust set free,

To the regions above returning,

And if true to thy word, and just thou art,
Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart,
Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart,

And return to my native heaven :
For I would be placed in the beautiful bow,
From time to time in thy sight to glow;
So thou mayest remember the Flake of Snow,
By the promise that God hath given.”

H. F. GOULD.

WHAT IS TIME?

I ASKED an aged man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled and curved, and white with hoary hairs :
“ Time is the warp of life," he said ; "oh, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !"

I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled :
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed-
“ Time sowed the seeds we reap in this abode !"

I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke
Of ruthless Death life's "golden bowl” had broke;
I asked him What is Time? “Time !" he replied,
“I've lost it !-oh, the treasure !”—and he died.

I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years :
They answered, “ Time is but a meteor's glare," —
And bade me for Eternity prepare.

I asked the seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise):
“ 'Tis folly's blank and wisdom's highest prize.”

I asked a spirit lost—but, oh, the shriek -
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak :
It cried, “A particle, a speck, a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite."

Of things inanimate my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply :
“Time is the season fair of living well,
The path to glory, or the path to hell.”

I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
“Thine is the present hour; the past is tied :
Live, live to-day; to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set.”

I asked old Father Time himself at last,
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind.

I asked the mighty Angel, who shall stand
One foot on sea, and one on solid land :
“By heaven's great King, I swear the mystery's o'er!
Time was,” he cried, “but Time SHALL BE no more.

MARSDEN.

COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR.
“AND wherefore do the Poor complain ?"

The Rich man asked of me ;-
“ Come, walk abroad with me," I said,

And I will answer thee."

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets

Were cheerless to behold;

And we were wrapped and coated well,

And yet we were a-cold.
We met an old bareheaded man,

His locks were few and white;
I asked him what he did abroad

In that cold winter's night.

The cold was keen indeed, he said,

But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad

To ask for charity.

We met a young barefooted child,

And she begged loud and bold ; I asked her what she did abroad

When the wind it blew so cold.

She said her father was at home,

And he lay sick a-bed,
And therefore was it she was sent

Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down

Upon a stone to rest ;
She had a baby at her back,

And another at her breast.

I asked her why she loitered there,

When the night-wind was so chill ; She turned her head, and bade the child

That screamed behind, be still ;

Then told us that her husband served,

A soldier, far away
And therefore to her parish she

Was begging back her way.
I turned me to the Rich man, then,

For silently stood he-
“You asked me why the Poor complain,
And these have answered thee!".

SOUTIEY. THE DWELLINGS OF THE POOR.

THERE's not a scene beneath God's dome

Where Wealth can stand and say, “Here Poverty shall never come,

While I preserve my sway.”
There's not a place where Rest can say,

“I'll not have Labour here ;" For Rest itself would pine away

If Labour were not near.
Extremes will meet, and friend or foe

Unto each other prove;
But why not make a heaven below,

By binding both with love?

And much there is that runs to waste,

In palace and in hall, Would build for comfort, and with taste,

The labourer's cottage small ;-
Would make him turn his mind about,

And with new hopes begin
To love his garden neat without,

His store of books within ;

To make him feel himself A MAN,

With heart more pure and warm, When once he knew the better plan

To which he might conform ! “The poor are always with you,” said

Our Lord, when he was poor, And had not where to lay his head

From storm or heat secure;

“And inasmuch as unto them

Ye do the best ye may,
Ye do it unto me, and I
Will own it in THAT DAY!"

Dr. S. T. IIALL. BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST

We were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep-
It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter

To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder, “Cut away the mast !"

So we shuddered there in silence ;

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,

And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers,
“We are lost !" the captain shouted,

As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand, “ Isn't God upon the ocean,

Just the same as on the land ?”

Then we kissed the little maiden,

And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbour
When the morn was shining clear !

J. T. FIELDS.

THE SHIP ON FIRE.

THERE was joy in the ship as she furrowed the foam,
For fond hearts within her were dreaming of home.
The young mother pressed fondly her babe to her breast,
And sang a sweet song as she rocked it to rest;

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