."

Months passed, that bud of promise, was unfolding every hour.
I thought that earth had never smiled upon a fairer flower.
So beautiful! it well might grace the bowers, where angels dwell,
And waft its fragrance to His throne, "who doeth all things well."

Years fled; that little sister then was dear as life to me,
And woke, in my unconscious heart a wild idolatry.
I worshipped at an earthly shrine, lured by some magic spell,
Forgetful of the praise of Him "who doeth all things well."

She was like the lovely Star, whose light around my pathway shone,
Amid this darksome vale of tears through which I journey on;
No radiance had obscured the light, which round His throne doth dwell,
And I wandered far away from Him, who "doeth all things well."

That star went down, in beauty, yet, it shineth, sweetly now,
In the bright and dazzling coronet that decks the Saviour's brow,
She bowed to that destroyer, whose shafts none may repel;
But we know, for God has told us, that "He doeth all things well."

I remember well, my sorrow, as I stood beside her bed,
And my deep and heartfelt anguish when they told me she was dead.
And, oh! that cup of bitterness--but let not this heart rebel,
God gave; he took; he can restore; "He doeth all things well."

HOW OLD ART THOU?

Count not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own,
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.

But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.

Will the shade go back on thy dial plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on, and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date,
Then live while 'tis called to-day.

Life's waning hours, like the Sybil's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh, then rouse thee, and live nor deem that man's age
Stands in the length of his Pilgrimage,
But in days that are _truly wise_.

ON TIME.

Who needs a teacher to admonish him
That flesh is grass! that earthly things, but mist!
What are our joys, but dreams? And what our hopes?
But goodly shadows in the summer cloud?
There's not a wind that blows, but bears with it
Some rainbow promise. Not a m