Our outward life requires them not
Then, wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth.

To comfort man-to whisper hope
Whene'er his faith is dim;

For He who careth for the flowers
Will care much more for him.

WHAT IS TIME?

Marsden.

I ASKED an aged man, a man of cares,
Wrinkled, and curved, and white with hoary hairs;
“Time is the warp of life," he said, “O tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!"

I asked the ancient venerable dead,

Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled;
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
"Time sowed the seeds we reap in this abode!"

I asked a dying sinner, ere the stroke

Of ruthless death life's "golden bowl had broke ; I asked him, What is time?" Time," he replied, "I've lost it. Ah the treasure!" and he died.

I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years;
They answered, "Time is but a meteor's glare,"
And bade me for eternity prepare.

I asked the seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify, or desolate the ground;
And they replied (no oracle more wise),
"'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize!"

I asked a spirit lost, but O, the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak!
It cried, "A particle! a speck! a mite

Of endless years, duration infinite!"

Of things inanimate, my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply:
"Time is the season fair of living well,
The path to glory, or the path to hell."

I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
"Thine is the present hour, the past is fled;
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet,
On any human being rose or set!"

I asked old father Time himself at last;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind.

I asked the mighty angel, who shall stand
One foot on sea, and one on solid land:

"By heaven's great King, I swear the mystery's

o'er!

Time was," he cried; "but time shall be no more!"

THE VALLEY OF BACA.

WEEP, Pilgrim, weep! yet not for the sorrow
Which follows thy steps in this wilderness-way;
And not as the hopeless who darken to-morrow,
With cares which might well be enough for to-day:
The days of thy mourning an end soon shall see,
There are songs in the valley of Baca for thee!

Mourn, Pilgrim! sadly and bitterly mourn!
For this is the valley of shadows and tears;
Yet not for past pleasures which may not return,
Nor childhood's decay with its young happy years.
There are causes of sorrow, more sad and more true,
Yet songs in the valley of Baca for you!

Sigh, Christian pilgrim! for sins deeply sigh,
Which crucify Jesus again and again;
Let rivers of water flow down from your eye,
That He the Belov'd is rejected of men ;
Yet healing is found in the blood of the Tree,
There are songs in the valley of Baca for thee

Joy, Pilgrim, joy! 'mid thy bosom's deep swelling:
Look up there are fountains of life by the way:
There are springs from the rock in the wilderness
welling;

There is comfort for thee, if that Rock be thy stayA sinner forgiven! a bondsman made free!

Who should in the valley of Baca like thee!

Sing, pilgrim, sing! let the theme of thy singing
Be Jesus the Conqueror, Jesus the Lamb!

Let all the wide earth with his glory be ringing:
Let thy praises for ever ascend to His name!
The journey is rough, but the way is not long :
Through the valley of Baca let Christ be thy song!

LINES BY A DYING MOTHER.

I Go to the land where the pure spirits dwell 'Midst bowers of beauty and bliss,—

Then why should I take an unwilling farewell Of a false fleeting world like this?

Do I wish to live over

The past once again,

That thus I discover

At parting, such pain?

Oh no! 'tis not so;

Though my tears overflow,

To my MASTER and MAKER

I long to go.

Soft voices are calling-O, haste thee away!
The feast is prepared and the song;

The guests are in waiting, and we only stay
To bear thee in triumph along :

Our pinions have power
Unknown to the wind,

And earth in an hour

We'll leave far behind.

On high, as we fly

To our home in the sky,

The stars seem to whirl

As we pass by.

O, FATHER, forgive the frail being that grieves As she casts a last look below,

On two that are tender, and one that she leaves Alone on a journey of woe!

For a wife and a mother

Perhaps they'll complain,
And the voice of another

Would cheer them in vain.

When deep in my sleep

A sad silence I keep,

They'll call on their lov'd one,

And watch, and weep!

Thou GoD of all goodness, and mercy, and love, With my dying breath raised to thee,

I trust that thou wilt to these mourners prove The Guardian thou hast been to me.

Ere the soul shall have broken

Its fetters of clay,

O grant me a token

In answer, I pray!

That I with no sigh
Of regret may then die,
And haste to the heaven

That waits on high.