And when the Simoom goes by,
Teachest him to close his eye,
And bow down before the blast
Till the purple death has pass'd!
And when week by week is gone,
And the traveller journeys on
Feebly: when his strength is fled,
And his hope and heart seem dead,
Camel, thou dost turn thine eye
On him kindly, soothingly,
As if thou wouldst cheering, say,
Journey on for this one day!
Do not let thy heart despond;
There is water yet beyond;
I can scent it in the air ;-
Do not let thy heart despair!"
And thou guid'st the traveller there.
Camel, thou art good and mild,
Mightst be guided by a child,
Thou wast made for usefulness,
Man to comfort and to bless ;
And these desert-wastes must be
Untrack'd regions but for thee !"
"SMALL SERVICE IS TRUE SERVICE."
THE brakes with golden flowers were crown'd,
And melody was heard around;
When, near a stream, a dew-drop shed
Its lustre on a violet's head.
While trembling to the breeze it hung,—
The streamlet, as it roll'd along,
The beauty of the morn confess'd,
And thus the sparkling pearl address'd :-
"Sure, little drop, rejoice we may,
For all is beautiful and gay;
Creation wears her emerald dress,
And smiles in all her loveliness;
And with delight and pride I see
That little flower bedew'd by thee.
Thy lustre with a gem might vie,
While trembling in its purple eye."
"You may rejoice, indeed, 'tis true,"
Replied the radiant drop of dew;
"You will, no doubt, as on you move,
To flocks and herds a blessing prove;
But when the sun ascends on high,
Its beams will draw me to the sky;
And (I must own my humble power)
I've but refresh'd a lowly flower."
"Hold!" cried the stream, "nor thus repine;
For well 'tis known a power divine,
Subservient to His will supreme,
Hath made the dew-drop and the stream.
Though small thou art-(I that allow)—
No mark of Heaven's contempt art thou.
Thou hast refresh'd an humble flower,
And done according to thy power.
All things that are, both great and small,
One glorious Author formed them all.
This thought may all repining quell,—
What serves His purpose serves Him well.
OH! do not weep
For those who sleep
Beneath yon grassy mound:
They softly rest
On Jesu's breast
Till the last trumpet sound.
Their toil is o'er;
They sin no more;
Labour and sorrow cease:
The fight is done,
The victory won,
And now they lie in peace.
Weep, rather weep, For those who keep A bitter deadly strife With Satan, sin,
And the world within, Unceasingly through life.
Oh! who that knows
These troubling foes Would e'er recall again The soul, set free
From misery,
To earth's enthralling chain?
No, happy dead!
Your quiet bed
With tearful hope I view !
Welcome the day
When I shall lay
My weary head with you!
THE curling waves, with awful roar,
A little boat assail'd;
And pallid fear's distracting power
O'er all on board prevail'd-
Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who steadfast view'd 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 helpers gone,
We still have one true anchor left-
God helps, and He alone.
He to our prayers will bend an ear,
He gives our pangs relief;
He turns to smiles each trembling tear,
To joy each torturing grief.
|