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And I hear a low murmur like thine in reply,
When I pour out my spirit in prayer.

And though, like a mourner that sits by the tomb, I am wrapped in a mantle of care,

Yet the grief of my spirit-oh! call it not gloomIs not the wild grief of despair.

By sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night,
Far off a bright vision appears,

And Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of ligh
Is born, like the rainbow, in tears.

H

THE LORD CARETH.

E cares for me! Why do I fret
At every little ill,

And vex myself so needlessly?—

Oh! heart be still!

Resting on Him then let me stay

Upon His hopeful word;
Faithful are all the promises

Of our dear Lord.

Peace in my heart, what shall I fear

While I sojourn below?

He will defend me in the fight

From every foe.

Let friends be cold, or foes be wroth

And bitter malice cast

My Saviour, midst a hating world
Loved to the last.

He cares for me! Oh! wondrous care!
Lord, fill my barren heart

With love divine for all Thy love:
Bid sin depart.

The lilies and the snowdrops grow
In lowly beauty rare;

But He will clothe me with a robe
Surpassing fair.

I come to Thee! Jesus, I cast
My cares and fears on Thee;
Rid me of self and earthliness,

From sin me free.

Then to my Father's house me bring,
That holy dwelling-place,

To love, and serve, and praise Thee there,
And see Thy face.

SUNDAY MAGAZINE.

EVENING HYMN.

THE day is gone, its hours have run,

And Thou hast taken count of all

The scanty triumphs grace hath won,
The broken vow, the frequent fall;
Thro' life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus! be our Light.

Labor is sweet, for Thou hast toiled,

And care is light, for Thou hast cared; Ah! never let our works be soiled

With strife, or by deceit ensnared;

Thro' life's long day and death's dark night,
O gentle Jesus! be our Light.

Grant us, dear Lord! from evil ways

True absolution and release,

And bless us more than in past days

With purity and inward peace;

Thro' life's long day, and death's dark night, O gentle Jesus! be our Light.

F. W. FABER.

BEAUTIFUL THINGS.

EAUTIFUL faces are those that wear

BE

It matters little if dark or fair-
Whole-souled honesty printed there.

Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words

Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do

Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministries to and fro-
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Ceaseless burdens of homely care

With patient grace and daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless-
Silent rivers of happiness,

Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight at set of sun,

Beautiful goal, with race well won,

Beautiful rest, with work well done.

Beautiful graves where grasses creep,
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep
Over worn-out hands-oh! beautiful sleep!

THE THREE PARSONS

A SAILOR DEACON'S STORY.

1 DON'T belong to the 'Stablished Church, myself,

sir, as I'm a Independent, a-beggin' your pardon,

as I know you to be a Church parson.

But you see what I says is this: you take a lot o' men like us fisherfolk, as works 'ard all the week, and mostly under command, a-doin' what the skipper tells us -'aulin in ropes, settin' sail, draggin' nets, one thing and another as you naterally don't know nothing

authority over like, anybody can knock

about-with nobody for to feel 'ceptin' maybe a boy or two what about; well, now, if so be as we chaps go in for the Stablished Church, we aint nobody no more at Church than aboard the boats; we aint got no woice in what's to be done, and we aint got no sort of power or command like. But if we goes in for the Methodies or the Baptists (which is a lot, howsomdever, as I don't 'old with at all, as I knowed one old man who almost got 'is death through a being kep' under too long, consequens of the minister a lettin' 'm slip and 'is legs gettin' entangled in the sheet), but if, I say, we join any of the sectises, why we get made a lot of-some being stooards, some deacons, and some a-takin' round the 'at. You should see me and old Cockles foller our minister out o' the westry o' Sundays, or a-makin' the collection arterwards, and our names called out sometimes from the pulpit : "Brother Cockles and Brother Coleman."

Then, again, if we don't 'old with what our minister preaches, or if we seem to want a change, we can tell 'im to look out for a call to some other place: and afore we engages a hand, we have a lot down on trial. We pays our money and we takes our choice.

Now, gen'rally speaking, when we're on the look-out for a minister, we have one chap down one Sunday, another on the follerin' Sunday, and so on till we're satisfied- —one done, t'other come on. But it so happened, one time we wanted a minister, we all seemed most dreadful particular-we couldn't satisfy ourselves. We had six down runnin,' but none of 'em didn't suit, At last, by some little misunderstandin', we had three come down to preach their trial sermons on the same

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