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LORD, BRING US HOME

Upon the hills the wind is sharp and cold,
The sweet young grasses wither on the wold,
And we, O Lord! have wander'd from thy fold;
But evening brings us home.

Among the mists we stumble, and the rocks
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox
Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks;
But evening brings us home.

The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet
Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat
Their pitiful complaints-oh, rest is sweet
When evening brings us home.

We have been wounded by the hunter's darts;
Our eyes are very heavy, and our hearts
Search for thy coming-when the light departs
At evening bring us home.

The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star
Rises to guide us. We have wandered far-
Without thy lamp we know not where we are;
At evening bring us home.

A HAVEN OF REST

If there is no rest on earth, there is rest in heaven. Oh, ye who are worn out with work, your hands calloused, your backs bent, your eyes half put out, your fingers worn with the needle, that in this world you may never lay down; ye discouraged ones, who have been waging a hand-to-hand fight for bread; ye to whom the night brings little rest, and the morning more drudgery—O, ye of the weary hand, and the weary side, and the weary foot, hear me talk about rest!

Look at that company of enthroned ones. It cannot be that those bright ones ever toiled! Yes! Yes! These packed the Chinese tea boxes, and through. missionary instruction escaped into glory. These sweltered on Southern plantations, and one night, after the cotton picking, went up as white as if they had never been black. Those died of over-toil in the Lowell carpet factories, and these in Manchester mills; those helped build the pyramids, and these broke away from work on the day Christ was hounded out of Jerusalem. No more towers to build; heaven is done. No more garments to weave, the robes are finished. No more harvests to raise ; the garners are full. O sons and daughters of toil! arise ye, and depart, for that is your rest.—Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, D.D.

THE NEW SONG

This new song of heaven was not composed because heaven had nothing else to do, but Christ, in memory of cross and crown, of manger and throne, of earth and heaven, and wrought upon by the raptures of great eternity, poured this from his heart, made it for the armies of heaven to shout in celebration of victory, for worshipers to chant in their temple services, for the innumerable home circles of heaven to sing in the house of many mansions. If a new tune be started in church, there is only here and there a person who can sing it. It is some time before the congregation learns a tune. But not so with the new

song of heaven. The children who went up to-day from the waters of the Ganges are now singing it. That Christian man or woman, who, a few moments ago, departed from this very street, has joined it. All know it—those by the gate, those on the river-bank, those in the temple. Not feeling their way through it, or halting or going back, as if they had never before sung it, but with a full round voice they throw their soul into this new song. If some Sabbathday a few notes of that anthem should travel down the air, we could not sing it. No organ could roll its thunder. No harp could catch its trill. No lip could announce its sweetness. Transfixed, lost, enchanted, dumb, we could not bear it-the faintest note of the new song. Yet, while I speak, heaven's cathedral quakes under it, and seas of glory bear it from beach to beach, and ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands, sing it-" the new song.". Rev. T. De Witt Talmage, D.D.

DREAMS OF HEAVEN

Dream'st thou of heaven?

What dreams are thine,

Fair child, fair gladsome child?

With eyes that like the dewdrop shine,

And bounding footsteps wild!

Tell me what hues th' immortal shore
Can wear, my bird! to thee?

Ere yet one shadow bath passed o'er
Thy glance and spirit free!

"Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright,
With long, long Summer days;

I see its lilies gleam in light

Where many a fountain plays.

"And there, unchecked, methinks, I rove

And seek where young flowers lie,

In vale and golden-fruited grove

Flowers that are not to die!"

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Until I lay among them, slain!"

O brother, there was a path so clear!" "It might be, but I never sought." "O brother, there was a sword so near!" "It might be, but I never fought."

"Yet sweep this needless gloom aside, For you are come to the gate at last!" Then in despair that soul replied,

The gate is fast! The gate is fast!"

"I cannot move the mighty weight,
I cannot find the golden key,
But hosts of heaven around us wait,

And none have ever said 'No' to me.

"Kind saint, put by thy palm and scroil,
And come unto the door for me!"
"Rest thee still, thou little fair soul,
It is not mine to keep the key."

"Sweet angel, strike these doors apart!
That outer air is dark and cold."
"Rest thee still, thou little pure heart,
Not for my word will they unfold."

Up all the shining heights he prayed
For that poor Shadow in the cold;
Still came the word, "Not ours to aid!
We cannot make the doors unfold!"

But that poor Shadow, still outside,

Wrung all the sacred air with pain.
And all the souls went up and cried,
Where never cry was heard in vain.

No eyes beheld the pitying Face,
The answer none might understand,
But dimly through the silent space

Was seen the stretching of a hand.

MANY MINDS, MANY MANSIONS

Amongst the good whom we hope to meet in heaven, there will be every variety of character, taste, and disposition. There is not one "mansion" there; but many. There is not one "gate" to heaven; but many. There are not gates only on the north; but on the east three gates, and on the west three gates, and on the south three gates. From opposite quarters of the theological compass, from opposite quarters of the religious world, from opposite quarters of human life and character, through different expressions of their common faith and hope, through different modes of conversion, through different portions of the holy Scripture, will the weary travelers enter the heavenly city, and meet each other-"not without surprise "-on the shores of the same river of life. And on those shores they will find a tree. bearing, not the same kind of fruit always and at all times, but "twelve manners of fruit," for every different turn of mind-for the patient sufferer, for the active servant, for the holy and humble philosopher, for the spirits of just men now at last made perfect; and "the leaves of the tree shall be for the healing," not of one single Church or people only, not for the Scotsman or Englishman only, but for the "healing of the nations "-the Frenchman the German, the Italian, the Russian-for all those whom it may be, in this, its fruits have been farthest removed, but who, nevertheless, have "hungered and thirsted after righteousness," and who therefore "shall be filled."—Dean Stanley.

THE ETERNAL LIFE OF GOD

Think that there is only one thing in the whole universe, and that you must belong to it forever; that you are in it now, and never can be divided from it, the eternal life of God. And in the thought you will have power to overcome sorrow, power to live through decay, power to die and smile at death; for death is but another form of life. That is one spiritual idea you may bind up with the advent of spring.-Rev. S. A. Brooke (Chaplain to Queen Victoria).

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