Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I fleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words and meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I fit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou haft sent:
And my content

Makes those and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'ft my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth,

And giv'ft me waffail-bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 't is Thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land:

All this, and better, doft Thou send
Me for this end:

That I fhould render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fired with incense, I refign
As wholly Thine :

But the acceptance, that must be,

O Lord, by Thee.

Robert Herrick. 1596.

"AS STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS."

S ftrangers,

glad for this good inn

A where nobler wayfarers have been;

Yet afking but a little reft:

Earth may not keep her spirit-guest.

As those whom no entangling bond
Muft draw from life and love beyond,
Strangers to all that lures aftray

From one plain path, the homeward way.

How muft the pilgrim's load be borne?
With ftaggering limbs and look forlorn?
His Guide chose all that load within;
There's need of everything, but fin.

So trufting Him whose love he knows,
Singing along the road he goes ;
And nightly of his burden makes
A pillow till the morning breaks.

How thinks the pilgrim of his way
As wanderers homefick and afstray?
The ftarlight and the dew he sees;
He feels the bleffing of the breeze.

The valley-shades, how cool and still!
What splendor from the beetling hill!
He longs to go, he loves to stay,
For God is both his Home and Way.

Strangers to fin! beloved of God!

Ye track with heaven-light earth's mean sod: For, pilgrims dear, He walks with you,

A Guide

but once a Pilgrim too.

Lucy Larcom.

OUR TITLES.

A

RE we not Nobles?
Our pedigree so high

We who trace

That God for us and for our race

Created earth and sky,

And light and air and time and space,
To serve us and then die.

Are we not Princes? we who stand
As heirs befide the throne;
We who can call the promised land
Our heritage, our own;

And answer to no less command
Than God's, and His alone.

Are we not Kings? both night and day,

From early until late,

About our bed, about our way,

A guard of angels wait;

And so we watch and work and pray

In more than royal state.

Are we not holy? Do not start :

It is God's sacred will

To call us temples set apart
His Holy Ghoft may fill :

Our very food. . . . O hush, my heart,
Adore IT and be ftill!

Are we not more? our life fhall be

Immortal and divine.

The nature Mary gave to thee,

Dear Jesus, ftill is thine;

Adoring in thy heart, I see

Such blood as beats in mine.

O God, that we can dare to fail,
And dare to say we must!
O God, that we can ever trail
Such banners in the duft,
Can let such starry honors pale,
And such a blazon ruft!

Shall we upon such titles bring
The taint of fin and fhame?
Shall we, the children of the King,
Who hold so grand a claim,
Tarnish by any meaner thing
The glory of our name?

Miss A. A. Procter.