e path I tread.
Alone, too weak to fight the host
Of Pleasure's vicious train,
'Tis then I need Thy succour most;--
Let me not seek in vain.

Hide not Thy face, but day by day,
Shine out more clearly bright;
Until this narrow, thorny way,
Shall end in Death's dark night.
Then freed from all the taints of sin,
Through Thine abundant Grace;
The crown of righteousness I win,
And see Thee face to face.

In my Garden of Roses.

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!
Here where the sunlight reposes;
Pink petals lie thick at my feet,
Here in my garden of rose's.

Oh! come to my bower! My Queen!
Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs;
Shaded with curtains of green;--
Here let us dream through the hours.

The sky is unfleck'd overhead,--
Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray,--
The earth to the heavens is wed,
And robin is piping his lay.

Lost is their sweetness upon me;
Vainly their beauties displaying;--
Cheerless I wander, and lonely,--
Hoping and longing and praying.

Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower!
Reign in my garden of roses;
Humbly we bow to thy power,
Loving the sway thou imposes.

Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall!
Robin desist from thy singing;
Mar not those sounds that enthrall,--
Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.

She cometh! My lily! my rose!
Queenlier,--purer, and sweeter!
Haste, every blossom that blows,
Pour out your perfumes to greet her!

Panting she rests in my arms;--
Now is my bower enchanted!
Essence of all this world's charms;--
My heart has won all that it wanted.

The Match Girl.

Merrily rang out the midnight bells,
Glad tidings of joy for all;
As crouched a little shiv'ring child,
Close by the churchyard wall.
The snow and sleet were pitiless,
The wind played with her rags,
She beat her bare, half frozen feet
Upon the heartless flags;
A tattered shawl she tightly held
With one hand, round her breast;
Whilst icicles shone in her hair,
Like gems in gold impressed,
But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears
That fell too fast to freeze,
Rolled down, as soft she murmured,
"Do buy my matches, please."

Wee, weak, inheritor of want!
She heard the Christmas chimes,
Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams,
Of by-gone, better times,
The days before her mother died,
When she was warmly clad;
When food was plenty, and her heart
From morn to night was glad.

Her fat