Thou art the truth, whose steadfast day Shines on through earthly blight and bloom, The pure, the everlasting ray,

The lamp that shines beyond the tomb.

Thou art the life, the blessed well,
With living water gushing o'er,

Which those who drink shall ever dwell
Where sin and death are known no more.

AMERICAN.

THE WIND.

"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth, so is every one that is born of the Spirit."-John iii. 8,

HARK! how the wind sweeps by

In freedom and in might!

Hark! how it rushes through the sky
Swift as an arrow's flight.
Now with tumultuous sound,
It stirs the troubled air,-
Now gently blows on all around
In breathings soft and fair.

Each tree bows down its head
Before the mighty blast!-
The things of earth, so still and dead,
Move as it rushes past.

The ships upon the sea

Are spreading every sail,

And gain the port where they would be
Blest by the prosperous gale.

And yet this mighty wind
Is all unseen by man,-
And still it leaves no track behind
For mortal eye to scan.
Whence do the breezes come?
And whither do they go?
We know not of their secret home,
Or wherefore they should blow.

God's Holy Spirit, thus

Hidden from human sight, Comes like a rushing wind on us, With quickening power and might: He bids the lofty hearts

Bow down beneath His will,
And life and energy imparts,
Where all was dead and still.

And when His breezes blow
Within the labouring breast,
How swiftly on our course we go
To reach the land of rest!

Like vessels on the sea,

How are we borne along!
Borne by that Spirit's might, so free,
So wonderful, so strong!

Oh, blessed Spirit, come,
Unseen by mortal eye,

Make every heart thy secret home,
And with thy power be nigh;
Yea, bear us evermore

Through waves of earthly strife,
And waft us to the heavenly shore
Of everlasting life!

THE STORMS OF LIFE.

SAILING upon life's dangerous sea,
Amidst surrounding rocks and shoals,
Lord, I would lift my heart to thee,
To guide me as the tempest rolls.
How oft I fear that I shall fail,

How oft my spirit sinks and faints,
How oft will dark mistrust prevail,
And faithless tremors and complaints.

Yet thou hast kept me safe thus far,
And surely still wilt safely keep;
Veil not thy Spirit's guiding star,
But lead my pathway through the deep.
From every peril of the wave,

From every devious track restore;
Till the calm harbour of the grave

I reach, and gain the promised shore.

EDMESTON.

"IT IS WELL."

BELOVED, "it is well!"

God's ways are always right;
And love is o'er them all,

Though far above our sight.

Beloved, "it is well!"

Though deep and sore the smart,
He wounds who skills to bind,

And heal the broken heart.

Beloved, "it is well!"

Though sorrow clouds our way, "Twill make the joy more dear, That ushers in the day.

Beloved, "it is well!"

The path that Jesus trod,
Though rough and dark it be,

It leads to heaven and God.

BISHOP DOANE.

THE CHRISTIAN'S POLAR STAR.

POLAR STAR of life's dark sea!
All unknowing how to steer,

Saviour, I would look to thee,
O'er the watery waste appear:
Let no cloud obscure thy light,
Shine encouragingly bright.

O'er the rolling billows shine,
Faith to thee her eye will turn,
Though the stormy night be mine,
If my beacou I discern,

If my guiding star appear,
I shall quickly lose my fear.

Though the foaming billows rise,
I shall scarce their threatening see,
If I turn me to the skies,

If I fix my gaze on thee:
Guiding star, still give thy light,
Lead me through the stormy night.

EDMESTON

THE SEASONS.

As each season passes by,
So our life proceeds;

Spring and summer quickly fly,

Autumu next succeeds.

Move the moments slow or fast,
Winter's cold will come at last;

Age will crown our head with snow,
Sight will fail and strength will waste,
Death will strike the final blow.

Swiftly roll the seasons round,
Spring will come again;
Let not then one year be found
To have passed in vain.
Now before the season's o'er,
Grace divine may we implore,
Grace to aid our feeble powers,
That when time shall be no more.
Spring eternal may be ours.

EPITAPH.

HER'S was a soul of fire that burned
Too soon for us its earthly tent,
But not too soon for her returned

To Him from whom it first was sent:
Grave! keep the ashes till redeemed from thee,

This mortal puts on immortality.

J. MONTGOMERY.