Go on, though faint and weary, that grief

worn form of thine,

Though, o'er thy pathway dreary, no hopelight seem to shine—

Yet still thou hast a staff 'tis safe to lean

upon,

A comfort cup to quaff, then cheerily go

on.

Go on, maybe beside thee is the spirit of thy love,

And, certainly, to guide thee, is a hand held forth above;

Go on, go on, for o'er thee watch ever angels'

eyes,

And stretching out before thee a better country lies.

Then wrap thy mantle round thee,
And breast the world's cold blast,

Nor doubt nor grief confound thee
Till all life's journey past-

And death's dark valley crossed,
From sorrow freed and pain,

Thou lone one and thy lost

May meet in heaven again.

From the Wife's Manual,

CXXI.

"Lo, we have left all, and followed Thee."-St. Mark x. 28.

AND hast thou left each cherished sin?
Oh! pause thee, look again within ;—
The sunbeam on the lake may glow,

Yet pierce not to the depth below!

Look well, is there no earthly care,
Chafing thy trembling soul in prayer?
No thoughts that with their binding chain,
Would draw thee to the world again?

Thy burden thou hast brought of grief,
And askest of thy Lord relief,-
And then, as if such prayer were vain,
Thou tak'st the burden up again.

Help us, oh Lord! in sorrow's hour
To trust Thy mercy and Thy power;
In clouds and tears Thy love to see,
Though all be dark, to follow Thee.

MRS. HENRY LYNCH.

CXXII.-THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple, heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from the heart

As showers from the clouds of summer Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

LONGFELLOW.

CXXIII.

LOSE not sight of Christ in this dark and cloudy day. Learn not from the world to serve Christ, but ask Himself the way: the world is a false copy, and a deceitful guide to follow.

RUTHERFORD's Letters.