Think truly, and thy thoughts

Shall the world's famine feed;
Speak truly, and each word of thine
Shall be a fruitful seed;

Live truly, and thy life shall be

A great and noble creed.

ENOUGH.

HORATIO BONAR

I

AM so weak, dear Lord, I cannot stand
One moment without Thee;

But oh, the tenderness of thine enfolding,
And oh, the faithfulness of Thine upholding,
And oh, the strength of Thy right hand!
That strength is enough for me.

I am so needy, Lord, and yet I know
All fullness dwells in Thee;

And hour by hour that never-failing treasure
Supplies and fills in overflowing measure,
My least, my greatest need. And so
Thy grace is enough for me.

It is so sweet to trust Thy word alone!
I do not ask to see

The unveiling of Thy purpose, or the shining
Of future light or mysteries untwining;
Thy promise-roll is all my own,

Thy word is enough for me.

The human heart asks love. But now I know
That my heart hath from Thee

All real, and full, and marvelous affection
So near, so human! Yet Divine perfection
Thrills gloriously the mighty glow!

Thy love is enough for me.

There were strange soul depths, restless, vast, and broad,
Unfathomed as the sea,

An infinite craving for some infinite stilling;
But now Thy perfect love is perfect filling!
Lord Jesus Christ, my Lord, my God,

Thou, Thou art enough for me!

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.

A

WINTER GLOAMING.

ND now the slowly fading light
Dies out upon the meadows;
And I walk on with weary feet,

Among the gathering shadows.
The wintry winds blow cold and chill,
The pine trees moan and shiver,
And drooping willows sway their arms
Above the ice-bound river.

While on the far horizon's edge
The sunset glow is gleaming,
This valley land is full of gloom,

With shapeless phantoms teeming.
But when the last beam dies away,

My feet shall cease their roaming,
Where love and home are waiting me
Beyond the winter gloaming.

So when my day of life is done,

And twilight shadows lengthen,
Till all around is dark and drear,

This hope my heart shall strengthen,
That with the slowly fading light

My feet shall cease from roaming,
Where rest and home are waiting me
Beyond life's winter gloaming.

FAITH LINCOLN.

BEYOND.

SHALL steer my bark where the waves roll dark,

I shall cross a stranger sea;

But I know I shall land on that bright strand
Where my loved ones are waiting for me.

There are faces there divinely fair,
The earth lost long ago;

And foreheads white, where curls lay bright,

Like sunbeams over snow.

There are sunny eyes like their own blue skies

Eyes that I've seen before

That will grow as bright as the stars of night
When I near the welcome shore.

There are little feet that I loved to meet
When the world was sweet to me;

I know they will bound when the rippling sound
Of my boat comes o'er the sea.

I shall see them stand on the gleaming sand,

Their white arms o'er the tide,

Waiting to twine their hands in mine

When I reach the farther side.

SIMON'S BURDEN.

"A man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear the cross."-Matt. xxvii, 32.

YOMPEL me, Lord, to bear Thy cross!

Then, though the weary flesh rebel,

In every hour of pain and loss,

The willing soul shall cry, 'Tis well.

Compel me, Lord, to bear Thy cross!
Not hermit-like removed from ken,
With fast, and scourge, and bed and moss,
But in the scornful eyes of men.

Compel me, Lord, to bear Thy cross,
Remembering Thou wast borne for me;
To count the gains of earth as loss,

And turn from all its smiles to Thee.

Oh, blest Cyrenian! humbly bowed
Beneath the weight of sinless shame;
Compelled by that infuriate crowd

To bear reproach for Jesus' name.

So would I walk, not bent with care,

Nor crushed to earth by heavy dross;
Be mine, the helpless, hopeful prayer,
Compel me, Lord, to bear Thy cross.

ROSE TERRY.

NOTHING BUT LEAVES.

but leaves; the Spirit grieves

NOTHING but

Over a wasted life,

O'er sins committed while conscience slept,
Promises made but never kept,

Folly and shame and strife,—
Nothing but leaves.

Nothing but leaves; no ripened sheaves
Garner'd of life's fair grain;

We sow our seed-lo, tares and weeds,
Words, idle words for earnest deeds;
Reaping, we find with pain

Nothing but leaves.

Nothing but leaves; and memory weaves

No veil to hide the past;

And as we trace our weary way,

Counting each lost and misspent day,

Sadly we find at last

Nothing but leaves.

And shall we meet the Master so,
Bearing our withered leaves?
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit;
Stand we before Him sad and mute.
Waiting the word He breathes,
"Nothing but leaves !"