One had climbed the rugged mountain-side ;
'Twas a bleak and wintry day;

The tempest had scattered his precious seed,
And he wept as he turned away.
But a stranger-hand had watered
That seed on a distant shore,
And the labourers now are meeting
Who had never met before.

And one-he had toiled amid burning sands,
When the scorching sun was high:

He had grasped the plough with a fevered hand, And then laid him down to die :

But another, and yet another,

Had filled that deserted field,

Nor vainly the seed they scattered
Where a brother's care had tilled.

Some with eager steps went boldly forth,
Broad-casting o'er the land;

Some watered the scarcely budding blade,
With a tender, gentle hand.
There's one, her young life was blighted,
By the withering touch of woe;

Her days were sad and weary,

And she never went forth to sow;

But there rose from her lonely couch of pain,
The fervent, pleading prayer;

She looks on many a radiant brow,

And she reads the answers there!
Yes! sowers and reapers are meeting;
A rejoicing host they come !
Will you join that echoing chorus ?
'Tis the song of the Harvest-home!

C. PENNEFATHER.

SWEET WORDS FROM INFANT LIPS.

"PRESSED out of measure and above strength,” ready to despair even of life," was the condition of a sorrowing parent's spirit, as he sat watching the flickering, curling flames by a cheerless hearth one winter's evening; his youngest child of three summers was on his knee, prattling innocent music, which yet found no response from him-he was too full of care and perplexity, and unhallowed fears, to do anything,' or feel anything but to indulge in gloomy regret for the past, and still more gloomy foreboding for the future. He was not, as he might have been, "trusting in the Lord with all his heart,"-not, "in all things, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, letting his requests be made known unto God"; and thereby was he deprived for a season of that "peace which passeth all understanding," and which would have "kept his heart and mind" in the hour of trial, "through Jesus Christ."

All at once those infant prattlings ceased, and the little one, looking up with earnest gaze into the face of her afflicted father, just uttered these words, neither more nor less, and was then silent

"Whose care of those who trust His word

Will never, never end."

"O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt," was then the language, and has often since been the language of his heart, who was "so slow to believe" the precious promises, thus brought to remembrance through the instrumentality of a very babe.-True it is, "God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform."

J. G.

THE CHILD THE COMFORTER.

"SETTLED despair and sorrow unspeakable were my portion," said an aged pilgrim to me one day,-"I thought that the wrath of God rested upon me for ever, that I had sinned past forgiveness, and that everlasting misery was mine. 'Tossed with tempest and not comforted,' the midnight hour brought me no sleep; there was no rest for my wounded, weary, agonized spirit. Hardly able to lift an eye toward Heaven, or to smite upon the breast, with the prayer, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner.' But what was that soft touch, felt upon my burning cheek where tears refused to flow? It was the hand of my child, almost an infant, who had stolen, in the darkness, to his poor. father's bed, his very touch and gentle breath were soothing, but how much more the words of unspeakable consolation, which he whispered in my ear, little knowing, dear fellow, what was passing in my heart. 'Father! don't we read that there is joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth?' Who can refuse to believe that a ministering angel spoke through the lips of that little one? And truly did the Lord even then 'ordain strength, as out of the mouth of the babe and suckling,' pouring the sweet sense of His love into the heart of the afflicted;-for the blessed assurance was given, that there is 'balm in Gilead,' and that there is a physician there.'

J. G.

TO A MOURNER IN ZION.

"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."-MATT. v. 4.

O MOURNER! dost thou feel as if forsaken ?

That love and mercy smile no more for thee?

Ah! look to Him whose strength like thine was shaken In the deep conflict of Gethsemane.

Art thou with sorrow and temptation clouded ?
It is the path thy sinless Saviour trod-
Art thou in deadness and in darkness shrouded?
'Tis oft the pilgrim's nearest way to God.

Or dost thou weep that Zion's children slumber,
And speed not onward to their joyful home?
Behold! a sanctified and shining number,

Arrayed in garments of Salvation, come.

Does the world claim thy spirit's lamentation,
And yet return thee wrath, neglect and scorn?
The saints in light have passed through tribulation.
To their unclouded and eternal morn.

Then rise, O mourner! be no more dejected,
Rejoice, thou honoured, whom the Lord has blest ;
The meek, the pure in heart, are His elected,
Refined and fitted for His heavenly rest.

Let not the Tempter of thy crown bereave thee,
The crown of righteousness, of peace and joy ;
The arms of love are open to receive thee,
And join thee to the ransomed band on high.

Lo ministering angels wait to guard thee,
And light thy steps the vale of death along,
With raiment white and spotless to reward thee,
And tune thy harp for high triumphant song.

WM. COLLIER.

THE WORLD IN ITS RIGHT PLACE.

"If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above." -COL. iii. I.

PILGRIMS who journey in the narrow way
Should go as little cumbered as they may ;
'Tis heavy sailing with a freighted ship,
'Tis pleasant travelling with a staff and scrip.
Gold clogs the path, dispose it how he will;
Makes it fatiguing as we climb the hill:
And 'tis but here and there we may descry
The camel passing through the needle's eye.

But happy he who views the toys of time
From lofty heights, from regions more sublime;
Who walks with God while yet he sojourns here,
His hopes still climbing to a higher sphere.—
Is he of wealth and earthly goods possessed,
He takes Heaven's bounty with a cheerful zest,
And yet, on all he has, there stands imprest
One truth conspicuous-"This is not my rest.”
From that divine remembrance ever springs
A moderated care for other things ;-
Pilgrim and stranger in a desert spot,

He holds them all as though he held them not.

Peace, order, comfort in his household reign,
And more than these he seeks not to obtain.
Religion here, in all her native grace,
Shines out serene in every heart and face,

Nor e'er is banished, though pursuits may claim
Attention oft, that do not bear her name ;
Thus he adorns the doctrine he avows;
Thus in the fear of God, he guides his house.
And while it prospers, that memorial word,
"The poor are always with you," still is heard.