"Make room!" cried the haughty outrider,
"Ye are closing the king's highway;
My lady is late, and their Majesties wait;
Give way there, good people, I pray !"
The preacher heard, and his soul was stirred,
And he cried to the rider, "Nay."

His eye like the lightning flashes;

His voice like a trumpet rings

"Your grand fête days, and your fashions and ways Are all but perishing things.

'Tis the king's highway; but I hold it to-day In the name of the King of kings."

Then bending his gaze on the lady,

And marking her soft eye fall-
"And now in His name a sale I proclaim,
And bids for this fair lady call.

Who will purchase the whole-her body and soul,
Coronet, jewels, and all?

"I see, already, three bidders

The World steps up as the first;

I will give her my treasures, and all the pleasures
For which my votaries thirst:

She shall dance through each day, more joyous and gay, With a quiet grave at the worst.

"But out spake the Devil boldly

The kingdoms of earth are mine :
Fair lady, thy name with an envied fame,

On their brightest tablets shall shine :
Only give me thy soul, and I give thee the whole,
Their glory and wealth to be thine.

46 And pray what hast thou to offer,

Thou Man of Sorrows unknown?

And He gently said, My blood I have shed,
To purchase her for Mine own—
To conquer the grave, and her soul to save,
I trod the wine-press alone.

"I will give her My cross of suffering,
My cup of sorrow to share ;

But with endless love in my home above,
All shall be righted there :

She shall walk in light, in a robe of white,
And a radiant crown shall wear.

"Thou hast heard the terms, fair lady,

That each hath offered for thee:

Which wilt thou choose? and which wilt thou lose-
This life? or the Life to be?

The fable was mine, but the choice is thine,
Sweet lady! which of the three?"

Nearer the stand of the preacher

The gilded chariot stole ;

And each head was bowed, as over the crowd
The thundering accents roll:

And every word as the lady heard,
Burned in her very soul.

"Pardon, good people," she whispered,

As she rose from her cushioned seat,-
Full well, they say, as the crowd made way,
You could hear her pulses beat :

And each head was bare as the lady fair
Knelt at the preacher's feet.

She took from her hand the jewels,
The coronet from her brow;

"Lord Jesus," she said, as she bowed her head,
"The highest bidder art Thou;
Thou gav'st, for my sake, Thy life, and I take
Thy offer-and take it now!

"I know the World and her pleasures,

At best they but weary and cloy ;

And the Tempter is bold, but his honours and gold Prove ever a fatal decoy :

I long for Thy rest-Thy bid is the best;

Lord, I accept it with joy !

"Give me Thy cup of suffering,

Welcome earth's sorrow and loss,

Let my portion be to win souls to Thee—
Perish her glittering dross.

I gladly lay down her coveted crown,
Saviour, to take Thy cross."
"Amen!" said the holy preacher ;
And the people wept aloud.

Years have rolled on, and they have all gone,
Around that altar who bowed :
Lady and throng have swept along

On the wind like a morning cloud.
But the Saviour has claimed His purchase,
And around His radiant seat,

A mightier throng, in an endless song,
The wondrous story repeat ;
And a form more fair is bending there,
Laying her crown at His feet.

So now in eternal glory

She rests from her cross and care;
But her spirit above, with a longing love,
Seems calling on you to share

Her endless reward, in the joy of her Lord,
Oh! will you not answer her—there ?

CONTENTMENT.

SOME murmur when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,

If one small speck of dark appear

In their great heaven of blue :
And some with thankful love are filled

If but one streak of light,

One ray of God's good mercy gild

The darkness of their night.

In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,

Why life is such a dreary task
And all good things denied?
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid

(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.

A PRAYER.

OH that mine eyes might closed be
To what concerns me not to see ;
That deafness might possess mine ear
To what concerns me not to hear;
That truth my tongue might always tie
From ever speaking foolishly;
That no vain thought might ever rest,
Or be conceived in my breast;

That by each deed, and word, and thought,
Glory may to my God be brought!
But what are wishes? Lord mine eye
On Thee is fixed, to Thee I cry!
Wash, Lord, and purify my heart,
And make it clean in every part ;
And when 'tis clean, Lord, keep it too,
For that is more than I can do.

THOMAS ELLWOOD, A.D. 1639.

A HYMN OF TRUST.

The following poem by Thomas Hodgkin is of special interest as a lifelong comfort to our late dear friend Lucy S. Johnson. She learned it as a girl when it first came out, over her pastry-making. A Friend remarks that "no doubt it was a comfort to her at the last." She, with her husband and little girl, were massacred by the natives in Madagascar (when the French took possession) on the 22nd of 11th mo., 1895.

FATHER, I live or die in this confiding,
That Thou art King:

That each still star above me owns Thy guiding,
Each wild bird's wing.

That Nature feels Thee, great unseen Accorder
Of all her wheels,

That tokens manifest of Thy mightier order
Her strife reveals ;

And that without Thee not a wave is heaving,
Nor flake descends,

That all the giant powers of her conceiving
Are Thy Son's friends.

Yet, I beseech Thee, send not these to light me
Through the dark vale ;

They are so strong, so passionlessly mighty,
And I so frail.

No! let me gaze, not on some sea far reaching,
Nor star-sprent sky,

But on a Face in which my own, beseeching,
May read reply.

Such was my cry: hath not the mighty Maker,

Who gave me Christ,

Hath not He granted me a sweet Awaker

For the last tryst ?