REST FOR THEE IN HEAVEN.

F ever life should seem

To thee a tedious way,

And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If, like the weary dove,

O'er shoreless oceans driven,

Raise thou thine eye above,

There's rest for thee in heaven.

But O, if thornless flowers

Throughout thy pathway bloom,
And gayly fleet the hours,
Unstained by earthly gloom;
Still, let not every thought
To this poor world be given;
Nor always be forgot,

Thy better rest in heaven."

THEN WELCOME CHANGE AND DEATH.

HORATIUS BONAR.

N

OT long, not long!-The spirit-wasting fever
Of this strange life shall quit each throbbing
vein;

And this wild pulse flow placidly for ever;

And endless peace relieve the burning brain.

Earth's joys are but a dream; its destiny.

Its fairest form

Is but decay and death.
Sunshine and shadow mixed. Its brightest day
A rainbow braided on the wreaths of storm.

Yet there is blessedness that changeth not;
A rest with God, a life that cannot die;
A better portion and a brighter lot;

A home with Christ, a heritage on high.

Hope for the hopeless, for the weary, rest,
More gentle than the still repose of even!
Joy for the joyless, bliss for the unblest;

Homes for the desolate in yonder heaven!

The tempest makes returning calm more dear;
The darkest midnight makes the brightest star,
Even so to us when all is ended here,

Shall be the past, remembered from afar.

Then welcome change and death! Since these alone
Can break life's fetters, and dissolve its spell;
Welcome all present change, which speeds us on
So swift to that which is unchangeable.

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS.

CHARLES MACKAY.

TELL me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,

Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?

Some lone and pleasant dell,

Some valley in the west,
Where free from toil and pain,

The weary soul may rest?

The loud wind softened to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered, “No!"

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Where billows round me play,
Know'st thou some favored spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopped for awhile, and answered "No!"

And thou, serenest moon,
That with such holy face
Dost look upon the earth,
Asleep in night's embrace,

Tell me, in all thy round,

Hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in wo,
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded "No!"

Tell me, my secret soul,

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,

Is there no resting place

From sorrow, sin, and death

Is there no happy spot,

Where mortals may be blessed,
Where grief may find a balm,

And weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope, and Love-best boons to mortals given— Wav'd their bright wings and whispered, Yes, in Heaven.

MY REST IS NOT HERE.

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

Y rest is in heaven, my rest is not here;

MY

Then why should I murmur when trials

near?

Be hushed, my dark spirit; the worst that can come But shortens thy journey, and hastens thee home.

It is not for me to be seeking my bliss,

And building my hopes in a region like this;
I look for a city which hands have not piled,

I pant for a country by sin undefiled.

The thorn and the thistle around me may grow,-
I would not lie down upon roses below;
I ask not my portion, I seek not a rest,
Till I find them forever in Jesus' breast.

are

Afflictions may damp me, they cannot destroy;
One glimpse of His love turns them all into joy,
And the bitterest tears, if He smile but on them,
Like the dew in the sunshine, grow diamond and gem.

Let doubt, then, and danger, my progress oppose;
They only make heaven more sweet at the close.

Come joy or come sorrow, whate'er may befall,
An hour with my God will make up for them all.

A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand,
I'll march on in haste in an enemy's land;

The road may be rough, but it cannot be long,
And I'll smooth it with hope and cheer it with song!

YES, THERE REMAINETH A REST.

Y

From the German. Translated by Miss WINKWORTH.

ES, there remaineth yet a rest;

Arise, sad heart, that darkly pines,
By heavy care and pain oppressed,
On whom no sun of gladness shines;
Look to the Lamb!—in yon bright fields
Thou'lt know the joy His presence yields.
Cast off thy load and thither haste:

Soon shalt thou fight and bleed no more,
Soon, soon thy weary course be o'er,
And deep the rest thou then shalt taste.

The rest appointed thee of God;

The rest that naught shall break or move,
That ere this earth by man was trod

Was set apart for thee by love.
Thy Saviour gave His life to win
This rest for thee; oh, enter in!