"THY WILL BE DONE."

Y God, my Father! while I ftray,

MY

Far from my home, on life's rough way,

O teach me from my heart to say,

"Thy will be done!"

Though dark my path, and sad my lot,
Let me "be ftill," and murmur not,
Or breathe the prayer, divinely taught,
"Thy will be done!"

What though in lonely grief I sigh
For friends beloved, no longer nigh;
Submiffive ftill would I reply,

"Thy will be done!"

If thou shouldft call me to refign
What most I prize, it ne'er was mine;
I only yield thee what was thine :

"Thy will be done!"

Should pining fickness waste away
My life in premature decay,

My Father! ftill I strive to say,
"Thy will be done!"

If but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet spirit for its guest,
My God! to thee I leave the rest,—
"Thy will be done!"

Renew my will from day to day,
Blend it with thine, and take away
All now that makes it hard to say,
"Thy will be done!"

Then, when on earth I breathe no more
The prayer, oft mixed with tears before,
I'll fing upon a happier shore,

"Thy will be done!"

Charlotte Elliott.

JUD

JUDGE NOT.

UDGE not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain

In God's pure light may only be

A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy fight
May be a token that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal fiery foe,

Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, And caft thee fhuddering on thy face!

The fall thou dareft to despise,

May be the angel's flackened hand
Has suffered it, that he may rise

And take a firmer, surer ftand;
Or, trufting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.

And judge none loft; but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain ;
The depth of the abyss may be

The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that may raise
This soul to God in after days!

Miss A. A. Procter.

HASTE NOT! REST NOT!

ITHOUT hafte! without reft!

WITH

Bind the motto to thy breast;

Bear it with thee as a spell;
Storm or sunshine, guard it well!

Heed not flowers that round thee bloom,
Bear it onward to the tomb!

Hafte not let no thoughtless deed
Mar for aye the spirit's speed!
Ponder well and know the right,
Onward then with all thy might!
Hafte not! years can ne'er atone
For one reckless action done.

Reft not! life is sweeping by,
Go and dare before you die:
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time!
Glorious 't is to live for aye,
When these forms have passed away.

Hafte not! reft not! calmly wait;
Meekly bear the ftorms of fate!
Duty be thy polar guide,
Do the right, whate'er betide!
Hafte not! reft not! conflicts past,
God fhall crown thy work at last.

From the German of Goethe. 1768.

PRAYER.

EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.

NOT

OT on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed
Compose thy weary limbs to reft;

For they alone are bleft

With balmy fleep

Whom angels keep;

Nor, though by care oppreffed,

Or anxious sorrow,

Or thought in many a coil perplexed

For coming morrow,

Lay not thy head

On prayerless bed.

For who can tell, when fleep thine eye shall close,

That earthly cares and woes

To thee may e'er return?
Arouse, my soul!

Slumber control,

And let thy lamp burn brightly;

So fhall thine eyes discern