70

POETRY.

THE MISSIONARY PRAYER.

I SAW a little child-a beauteous child,
With laughing eyes and locks of sunny hair,
So full of thought she seemed; so fair, so mild,
That heaven's own light appeared to linger there;
For lo! her snowy hands were clasp'd in prayer.
"Father, thou friend of little ones!" she cried,
"Thou who hast said thou lovest us so well;
"Look down on those who far from here abide,
"Who in those lands of heathen darkness dwell,
"Who know not thee, nor of thy goodness tell.
"If thou wilt hear a youthful suppliant's prayer,
" 'Reject not, Lord, the sacrifice I bring;
"For oft I think of little children there,
"Who have no books to read, no hymns to sing,
"Who pay no vows to thee nor sacred offering.
"Send forth thy servants to these distant lands,
"To speak glad tidings where thou art not known;
"To tell the heathen of thine high commands,
"Till all mankind shall Jesus' sceptre own,
"And Christ shall sit upon his judgment throne."

And then, oh then, to praise redeeming love,
With all the ransomed ones brought home to thee;
To watch them as in glittering ranks they move,
Striking their harps of sweetest harmony-
And singing of thy grace through all eternity!

J. T. T.

LINES ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF
"THE CROSS IS MY ANCHOR."

(See pape 34.)

Ir the cross be thy anchor, thy Pilot must be
That Saviour who walk'd on the fathomless sea;

Who reprov'd and controll'd the proud waves at his will,
And spoke "peace" to the tempest and bade it be still!

If the cross be thy anchor, no harm can be hurl'd
On thy head, when the tempest is vexing the world;
Innoxious, the flash shall disfigure the sky,

And the red bolt of ruin pass harmlessly by.

If the cross be thy anchor, by sceptics abhorr'd,
And thy cable the ne'er failing word of the Lord;
Thy voyage is safe and thy haven secure,
And for time and eternity thou shalt endure.

If the cross be thy anchor, then blest is thy lot,
For the crash of creation shall injure thee not,

With the trump that shall wake the wide world with alarms,
Thy Saviour will hasten thee home to his arms.

G. M.

SUBJECT FOR SONG.

WHEN I would meditate, as poets sing,
I task my fancy for a subject meet;

For I would not that my imagining

Should ever to my earth-bound heart be sweet,
Till some deep holy musings it will bring:
This, then, the theme that now I meditate-
There's not the lowliest flower, the meanest thing,
The thousand weeds that on the ocean float,
The fly, minuter than a sunbeam's mote;
Yea, all that on the earth's green carpet lies,
But that may bid our hearts to heaven uprise-
-Created thing, to Him that did create-

All, all may glorify the poet's song,

Because all things in heaven and earth to Thee belong.

E. L. A.

ON HEARING SWEET SINGING.

THE air's divine; it must be heavenward rising-
The solemn echoing of celestial quires,

Is it the angels' harp of golden wires?

Ah, no! the mortal song
Does all to earth belong.

I said it was a sound to heaven ascending;
But O! the earthly stain

Of that divinest strain!

The senseless song records

Of love, some passionate words.

And I would have it lift the soul to heaven;

For such sweet melody

Take angel's words with thee;

For it must only move

The heart to heavenly love.

E. L. A.

"HE SAT DOWN."-Psalm cxxxvii.

He sat down, and gazed on the flowing stream,

As it passed him in murmurs by;

And o'er it the sun threw his parting beam,

And the tear was in his eye.

His harp was hung on the drooping willow,

As it bent o'er the lonely wave;

And fancy half dreamed that the plaintive billow,

Had caught the soft music it gave.

But no one discovered the tear as it fell,

For it rolled with the waters below;

And it followed its course to a distant dell,

With other tears to flow.

No stranger perceived in the river's wail,
The music, the harp had lent it;

As it hastened to utter its plaintive tale,
To the place where the wanderer sent it.

He thought of the land that his fathers trod,

And the scenes of his early youth;

And he thought of the temple of his God,

And the light of His holy truth.

And he said, "If I e'er forget the land

Of my God and its vital breath;

Let its proudest skill forsake my hand,
And my tongue be still in death."

Belle Vue, Launceston.

E. L. COPE.