Father! to thee my spirit cries! 
      Thy wandering child reclaim. 
    Speak! and my dying faith shall rise,
      And wake a deathless flame.

EVENING HYMN.

    Thou, from whom we never part,
      Thou, whose love is everywhere,
    Thou who seest every heart,
      Listen to our evening prayer.

    Father! fill our souls with love,
      Love unfailing, full, and free,
    Love no injury can move,
      Love that ever rests on thee.

    Heavenly Father! through the night
      Keep us safe from every ill;
    Cheerful as the morning light,
      May we wake to do thy will.

AUTUMN.

    Sweet Summer, with her flowers, has past,
      I hear her parting knell;
    I hear the moaning, fitful blast,
      Sighing a sad farewell.

    But, while she fades and dies away,
      In rainbow hues she glows;
    Like the last smile of parting day,
      Still brightening as she goes.

    The robin whistles clear and shrill;
      Sad is the cricket’s song;
    The wind, wild rushing o’er the hill,
      Bears the dead leaf along.

    I love this sober, solemn time,
      This twilight of the year;
    To me, sweet Spring, in all her prime,
      Was never half so dear.

    While death has set his changing seal
      On all that meets the eye,
    ’Tis rapture, then, within to feel
      The soul that cannot die;—­

    To look far, far beyond this sky,
      To Him who changes never. 
    This earth, these heavens, shall change and die;
      God is the same for ever.

THE LORD’S DAY.

    This is the day when Jesus woke
      From the deep slumbers of the tomb;
    This is the day the Saviour broke
      The bonds of fear and hopeless gloom.

    This is indeed a holy day;
      No longer may we dread to die. 
    Let every fear be cast away,
      And tears be wiped from every eye.

    Sorrow and pain the Saviour knew;
      A dark and thorny path he trod;
    But heaven was ever in his view,—­
      That toilsome path led up to God.

    Let every heart rejoice and sing;
      Let every sin and sorrow cease;
    Let children come this day and bring
      Their offering of love and peace.

THE MINISTRY OF PAIN.

    Cease, my complaining spirit, cease;
      Know ’tis a Father’s hand you feel;
    It leads you to the realms of peace;
      It kindly only wounds to heal.

    My Father! what a holy joy
      Bursts on the sad, desponding mind,
    To say, when fiercest ills annoy,—­
      “I know my Father still is kind!”

    This bids each trembling fear be still,
      Checks every murmur, every sigh;
    Patience then waits his sovereign will,
      Rejoiced to live,—­resigned to die.