THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sung truce; for the night cloud had lowered
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ;
And twice ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track,
Till autumn and sunshine arose on the way
To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft,
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young, I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sighed aloud in her fulness of heart, 'Stay-stay with us!-rest, thou art weary and worn ;' And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay, But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.
Lord, thou did'st arise and say
To the troubled waters, 'Peace,'
And the tempest died away,
Down they sank, the foaming seas!
And a calm and heavy sleep
Spread o'er all the glassy deep,
All the azure lake serene
Like another heaven was seen!
Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall,
A joy thou art and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea,
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden'd the sailor like words from home.
In the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance on the pools below.
I look'd on the mountains-a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brokest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I looked on the peasant's lowly cot,
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea;
One thing is like thee to mortals given,-
Faith, touching all things with hues of heaven.
WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?
Thy neighbour? it is he whom thou
Hast power to aid or bless,
Whose aching heart and burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.
Thy neighbour? 'tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim;
Whom hunger sends from door to door,
Go thou and welcome him.
Thy neighbour? 'tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain,
Go thou and comfort him.
Thy neighbour? 'tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem-
Widow and orphan, helpless left,
Go thou and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? 'tis yon toiling slave,
Fetter'd in thought and limb;
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave,
Go thou and ransom him.
Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favour'd than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy brother worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
O, pass not, pass not heedless by !
Perhaps thou can'st redeem
One breaking heart from misery,
Go, share thy lot with him.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on its way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath and golden broom
On snowy mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale:
But this bold flow'ret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed,
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ;
The rose has but a summer reign;
The daisy never dies.
MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM.
The curling waves, with awful roar,
A little boat assailed;
And pallid fear's distracting power
O'er all on board prevailed-
Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm,
And cheerful, with composure smiled
At danger's threatening form.
'And sport'st thou thus,' a seaman cried, 'While terrors overwhelm ?'
'Why should I fear?' the boy replied,
My father's at the helm.'
So, when our worldly all is reft-
Our earthly helper gone-
We still have one true anchor left;
God helps, and He alone.
He to our prayers will lend an ear :
He gives our pangs relief;
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.
Then turn to him 'mid sorrows wild,
When want and woes o'erwhelm,
Remembering, like the fearless child,
Our father's at the helm.
Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpressed;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air,
His watchword in the hour of death;
He enters heaven with prayer.
O thou by whom we come to God,
The life, the truth, the way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod;
Lord, teach us how to pray.
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