But none of the ransomed ever knew
    How deep were the waters crossed,
  Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through
    Ere he found his sheep that was lost. 
  Out in the desert he heard its cry—­
  Sick and helpless, and ready to die.

  “Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way,
    That mark out the mountain track?”
  “They were shed for one who had gone astray
    Ere the Shepherd could bring him back.” 
  “Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?”
  “They are pierced to-night by many a thorn.”

  But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,
    And up from the rocky steep,
  There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
    “Rejoice!  I have found my sheep!”
  And the angels echoed around the throne,
  “Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!”

ELIZABETH CECILIA CLEPHANE.

* * * * *

DE SHEEPFOL’.

  De massa ob de sheepfol’,
  Dat guards de sheepfol’ bin,
  Look out in de gloomerin’ meadows,
  Wha’r de long night rain begin—­
  So he call to de hirelin’ shepa’d,
  “Is my sheep, is dey all come in?”
  Oh den, says de hirelin’ shepa’d: 
  “Dey’s some, dey’s black and thin,
  And some, dey’s po’ ol’ wedda’s;
  But de res’, dey’s all brung in. 
  But de res’, dey’s all brung in.”

  Den de massa ob de sheepfol’,
  Dat guards de sheepfol’ bin,
  Goes down in the gloomerin’ meadows,
  Wha’r de long night rain begin—­
  So he le’ down de ba’s ob de sheepfol’,
  Callin’ sof’, “Come in.  Come in.” 
  Callin’ sof’, “Come in.  Come in.”

  Den up t’ro’ de gloomerin’ meadows,
  T’ro’ de col’ night rain and win’,
  And up t’ro’ de gloomerin’ rain-paf’,
  Wha’r de sleet fa’ pie’cin’ thin,
  De po’ los’ sheep ob de sheepfol’,
  Dey all comes gadderin’ in. 
  De po’ los’ sheep ob de sheepfol’,
  Dey all comes gadderin’ in.

SARAH PRATT M’LEAN GREENE.

* * * * *

THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID.

He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian’s sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian Sect which cried:  “Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,

  Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave.”—­
  So spake the fierce Tertullian.  But she sighed,
  The infant Church! of love she felt the tide
  Stream on her from her Lord’s yet recent grave.

  And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,
  With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
  On those walls subterranean, where she hid

  Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs,
  She her good Shepherd’s hasty image drew—­
  And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

* * * * *

TWO SAYINGS.