CONTENT. A SONNET. SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content: Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent: The homely house that harbours quiet rest, ROBERT GREENE, 1560-1634. HYMN OF THE REAPERS. OUR Father! to fields that are white, In praises our voices unite To Thee, who hast made them thy care. The seed that was dropp'd in the soil, In One, who, beholding the toil, Would crown it at length with the sheaf. And ever our faith shall be firm In Thee, who hast nourish'd the root; Whose finger has led up the germ, And finish'd the blade and the fruit. The heads that are heavy with grain Thy blessings shine bright from the hills, And, Lord, 'tis Thy bounty that fills Oh! when, with the sickle in hand, To bind up and bear off Thy sheaves ! May we be as free from the blight, As ripe to be taken away, As that which we gather to-day! Our Father! the heart and the voice Flow out from fresh off'rings to yield; -American. HANNAH F. GOULD, 1812— LIVE! MAKE haste, O man, to live, Time hurries past thee like the breeze; Make haste, O man, to live! To breathe, and wake, and sleep, Make haste, O man, to live! Make haste, O man, to do Whatever must be done; Thou hast no time to lose in sloth, Thy day will soon be gone. Make haste, O man, to live! Up, then, with speed, and work; This is no time for thee to sleep- The useful, not the great, The thing that never dies; Set these before thine eyes, Make haste, O man, to live! The seed, whose leaf and flower, Make haste, O man, to live! Make haste, O man, to live! O sleep not, dream not, but arise, Make haste, O man, to live! -Hymns of Faith and Hope. WE FADE AS A LEAF. SEE the leaves around us falling, Dry and wither'd, to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling, In a sad and solemn sound : Sons of Adam, once in Eden, Virgins, much, too much presuming On your boasted white and red, View us late in beauty blooming, Number'd now among the dead. Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all your care; Fled on wings of our own making, We have left our owners bare. Sons of honour, fed on praises, Fluttering high in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air, that raises, Brings us down to parent earth. |