A LOST DAY.

Yet to my hand 'twas given

A golden harp to buy,

Such as the white-robed choir attune

To deathless minstrelsy.

Lost! lost! lost!

I feel all search is vain; That gem of countless cost Can ne'er be mine again; I offer no reward,

For till these heart-strings sever, I know that Heaven-intrusted gift Is reft away for ever.

But when the sea and land

Like burning scroll have fled, I shall see it in His hand

Who judgeth quick and dead; And when, of scath and loss

That man ne'er can repair,

The dread enquiry meets my soul,-
What shall it answer there?

83

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.

TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see;
And what I do in anything,
To do it as for Thee.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye:
Or, if he pleases, through it pass,
And then the heaven espy.

All may of Thee partake.
Nothing can be so mean,

Which with this tincture "For thy sake"
Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause

Makes drudgery divine;

Who sweeps a room as for Thy cause
Makes that and the action fine.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold:

For that which God doth touch and own

Cannot for less be told.

HERBERT.

GREEN PASTURES.

I WALK'D in a field of fresh clover this morn, Where lambs play'd so merrily under the

trees,

Or rubbed their soft coats on a naked old

thorn,

Or nibbled the clover or rested at ease.

And under the hedge ran a clear water-brook, To drink from, when thirsty or weary with

play;

And so gay did the daisies and buttercups look, That I thought little lambs must be happy

all day.

And when I remember the beautiful psalm That tells about Christ and His pastures so

green,

I know He is willing to make me His lamb, And happier far than the lambs I have

seen.

If I drink of the waters, so peaceful and still, That flow in His field, I for ever shall live;

I

If I love Him, and seek His commands to fulfil,

A place in His sheepfold to me He will give.

The lambs are at peace in the fields when they play;

The long summer's day in contentment they spend;

But happier I, if in God's holy way

I try to walk always, with Christ for my Friend.

MRS. M. L. DUNCAN.

WHO MADE THE FLOWERS?

"MOTHER, who made the pretty flowers That blossom everywhere;

The daisies and forget-me-nots,
And violets so fair?

The bright-eyed little heart's-ease too,
And lilies white as snow?

WHO MADE THE FLOWERS?

Who made the wild red columbines,

And fill'd each tiny cup

With honey, which the little bees
So daintily sip up?

Who made the fragrant clover-fields,
That drink the summer-showers?
It must have taken very long

To make so many

flowers!

Mother, who keeps the flowers alive,
And clothes them every day?
Who watches over them by night,
To keep all harm away."

87

""Twas God, my child, who form'd the flowers

So lovely and so fair,

And they, with all His hand hath made,

His kind protection share.

He form'd each leaf and opening bud,
With skill so nice and true,

And gave to some a golden tint,

To some a violet hue.

God shields the tender flowers by night,
And cares for them by day;

He giveth to each different plant
Its beautiful array.