SONNET.

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SONNET.

SACRED OFFERING.

Matthew, Chapter xi.

"COME unto me," the heavenly Teacher said, "All ye with labor and with toil opprest, And I will give your wearied spirits rest; And bear my yoke, and in my footsteps tread, For I am meek and lowly, and will lead

Your souls to peace; for gentle is my yoke, My burden light." O, not in vain were spoke, Saviour, thy words of mercy, still decreed To cheer my drooping soul, upon its way Through earthly scenes of trial, care, and strife! Yes, I will come to thee; thy words of life Shall calm each anxious thought, and chase away The hopes, the fears, the vain desires, that rise To lure my spirit from its kindred skies.

THE SAVIOUR IN THE THRONG OF
HUMAN LIFE.

BY JOHN STERLING.

AMID the gay and noisy throng

Around me fluttering, wheeling, shining, My ears are filled with shout and song; But yet my soul is still repining.

In every face around I see

Some heart-felt curse in silence working; Each eye reflects my sins on me,

And shows me all within me lurking.

'Mid bounding joy and passion's glow,
'Mid sportive bursts of mutual gladness,
Thin shades arise from far below,

Where boils a secret gulf of madness.

A quivering cheek, a faltering glance,
One throb, one sigh, the whole revealing;
In all the flashing, whirling dance,

I see a world of shipwreck reeling.

And while I fain would pause and think,
Me too the tumult onward presses;

In vain I strive, in vain I shrink;

My breast the hour's vague fiend possesses.

THE SAVIOUR IN THE THRONG.

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'Mid wreaths and gems, 'mid masks and crowns,

'Mid brows austere, or smooth from sorrow,

On all alike one ruin frowns,

And bodes for all one fearful morrow.

And 't is the worst despair to know,
By pangs within my bosom aching,
How deep in each the root of woe,

How many a heart is slowly breaking.

But while my sad, bewildered view
The wide confusion vainly traces,
One look I see serenely true,

Among the false and loveless faces.

Like yon blue sky, when first it shows

The storm-tost ship how Heaven hath pity; Or some pure mountain breeze that blows Its healing o'er a plague-struck city.

A voice not loud, like wind or wave,

A look made low by conscious greatness, Where all is calm, and deep, and grave, With a full soul's mature sedateness.

By Him subdued to thought and peace,
The crowd no more in tumult wander;
The sounds of surging riot cease,

And hearts high swollen devoutly ponder.

By his mild glance and sober power
Renewed to tranquil aspiration,
My soul escapes the reckless hour,

And learns his spirit's pure elation.

To thee, O God! a man redeemed,

With all a world to thee returning,
We own the light from Him that beamed,
In Him the source for ever burning.

So, 'mid our stormy griefs and joys,
May He still teach unforced devotion,
Recall our shaken being's poise,

And clear and deepen all emotion.

SONNET.

SACRED OFFERING.

John, Chapter xi.

"I AM the resurrection and the life,

He who believes in me shall never die." These, Master, were thy words; and still rely My hopes unmoved upon them, 'mid the strife Of earthly care; and then I follow thee

To the cold grave where Lazarus is laid.

LAZARUS AND MARY.

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I see thy tears, and Mary asks thine aid, The aid is present. “That thou hearedst me, Father, I thank thee "; and thou criest aloud To Lazarus, "Come forth!" He lives, he breathes,

The funeral garb is rent, the many wreaths Of death are torn away, and the pale shroud; Whilst wondering forms around the Saviour

WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary's house returned,
Was this demanded, if he yearned
To hear her weeping by his grave?

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" There lives no record of reply,

Which, telling what it is to die, Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbors met,

The streets were filled with joyful sound;