MY GOOD RIGHT HAND. I fell into grief, and began to complain; I looked for a friend, but I sought him in vain ; Companions were shy, and acquaintance were cold, They gave me good counsel, but dreaded their gold. "Let them go,” I exclaimed: "I've a friend at my side, To lift me, and aid me, whatever betide. To trust to the world is to build on the sand:I'll trust but in Heaven and my good Right Hand. My courage revived, in my fortune's despite, And my hand was as strong as my spirit was light; It raised me from sorrow, it saved me from pain : It fed me, and clad me, again and again. The friends who had left me came back every one, And darkest advisers looked bright as the sun; Hand! Mackay. THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN. Up to the throne of God is borne Nor will He turn His ear aside What though our burden be not light, Blest are the moments, doubly blest, That, drawn from this one hour of rest, Are with a ready heart bestowed Upon the service of our God! Why should we crave a hallowed spot? A church in every grove that spreads Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun Already half his race hath run ; He cannot halt nor go astray, Lord! since his rising in the East, Help with Thy grace, through life's short day, Our upward and our downward way; And glorify for us the west, When we shall sink to final rest. Wordsworth. TO A BUTTERFLY. Stay near me-do not take thy flight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart ! Dead times revive in thee; Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, Together chased the butterfly! Upon the prey :—with leaps and springs Wordsworth. THE MOTHER'S RETURN. A month, sweet Little-ones, is past O blessed tidings! thought of joy! Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near ; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear!" I told of hills, and far-off towns, But he submits; what can he do? No strife disturbs his sister's breast; Her joy is like an instinct, joy Her brother now takes up the note, Then, settling into fond discourse, We told o'er all that we had done,— Where two fair swans together glide. |