"Thy people fhall be willing in the day of thy power. PSALM CX. 3.

AVIOUR! though my rebellious will

SAVIOUR

Has been, by thy bleft power, renewed;

Yet in its secret workings ftill

How much remains to be subdued!

Oft I recall, with grief and shame,

How many years their course had run
Ere grace my murmuring heart o'ercame,
Ere I could say, "Thy will be done!"

I wished a flowery path to tread,

And thought 't would safely lead to heaven; A lonely room, a suffering bed,

These for my training-place were given.

Long I refifted, mourned, complained,
Wifhed any other lot my own;

Thy purpose, Lord, unchanged remained,
What wisdom planned, love carried on.

Year after year I turned away,

But marred was every scheme I planned;

Still the same lesson, day by day,

Was placed before me, by thy hand.

At length thy patient, wondrous love,
Unchanging, tender, pitying, ftrong,
Availed that ftony heart to move,
Which had rebelled, alas! so long.

Then was I taught by thee to say,
"Do with me what to thee seems beft;
Give, take, whate'er thou wilt away,

Health, comfort, usefulness, or rest.

"Be my whole life in suffering spent,

But let me be in suffering thine;

Still, O my Lord, I am content,

Thou now haft made thy pleasure mine."

Charlotte Elliott.

"We have need of patience, that after ye have done the will of God, ye might receive the promise."— HEB. X. 36.

A

ND is there nothing to be done,

While here, on this fick bed, I lie?

Should I thus weary to be gone,

Thus think, 't were better far to die?

Alas! that very thought declares

How much remains unhallowed still;
The soul which God for heaven prepares
Has loft her own in His bleft will.

And if His work of grace in me
Were now wellnigh consummated,
Contented, willing, fhould I be

To lie for years on this fick bed.

For then my faith would be so strong,
Would bring my blessed Lord so near,
That days, weeks, months, would ne'er seem long,
With such a Friend my couch to cheer.

Full many a sufferer there has seen

Such proofs of His transcendent worth,
That e'en their bed of pain has been
To them a little heaven on earth.

O then, my Saviour! be no more

Far from me in my hour of need; Thou canft the fainting soul restore, And make the feeble strong indeed.

O, grant me now that will refigned,

That patient, weaned, obedient heart, That loving, peaceful, heavenly mind, Thy Spirit can alone impart.

Let me not languish e'en for home,
One wish, one only wish, be mine!
Each hour more holy to become,
More fully and entirely Thine!

Charlotte Elliott.

AS body when the soul has fled,

As barren trees, decayed and dead,
Is faith, a hopeless, lifeless thing,
If not of righteous deeds the spring.

One cup of healing oil and wine,
One tear-drop shed on mercy's fhrine,
Is thrice more grateful, Lord, to thee,
Than lifted eye or bended knee.

In true and heaven-born faith we trace
The source of every Chriftian grace;
Within the pious heart it plays,
A living fount of joy and praise.

Kind deeds of peace and love betray
Where'er the stream has found its way;
But where these spring not rich and fair,
The ftream has never wandered there.

Drummond. 1585 – 1649.

BRINGING OUR SHEAVES WITH US.

THE

HE time for toil is past, and night is come, The laft and saddeft of the harvest eves; Worn out with labor long and wearisome, Drooping and faint the reapers haften home, Each laden with his fheaves.

Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,

Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves That I am burdened not so much with grain, As with a heaviness of heart and brain ;

Mafter, behold my fheaves!

Few, light, and worthless, yet their trifling weight

Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;

For long I ftruggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,
Yet these are all my fheaves.

Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,

Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet

I kneel down reverently, and repeat,

Master, behold my fheaves!