Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life,
Who seeth the widow give her mite,
Had watched this slave in her weary strife,
And shown himself to her longing sight.

The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin,
The grovelling want and the darkened mind,—­
I looked on this; but the Lord, within: 
I would what he saw was in me to find!

A childlike soul, whose faith had force
To see what the angels see in bliss: 
She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course,
They lived together,—­she knew but this.

And the life that I had almost despised
As something to pity, so poor and low,
Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized
He loved to come near and see it grow.

No sorrow for her that life was done: 
A few more days of the hut’s unrest,
A little while longer to sit in the sun,—­
Then—­He would be host, and she would be guest!

And up above, if an angel of light
Should stop on his errand of love some day
To ask, “Who lives in the mansion bright?”
“Me and Jesus,” Aunt Phillis will say.

* * * * *

A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem? 
And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream?

        Friend, surely so! 
        For this I know,—­
That our faiths are foolish by falling below, Not coming above, what God will show; That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast, To whose beauty our eyes have never passed;
That his face in the present, or in the to-be,
Outshines the best that we think we see.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.

ILKA BLADE O’ GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O’ DEW.

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,
And bear ye a’ life’s changes, wi’ a calm and tranquil mind,
Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha’e faith and ye ’ll win through,
For ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye’ve been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there’s good in store for you,
For ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.

In lang, lang days o’ simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o’ rain to nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi’ balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.

Sae, lest ’mid fortune’s sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith’s ee,
Some wee dark clouds o’ sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o’ grass keps its ain drap o’ dew.

JAMES BALLANTINE.

UNCHANGING.

In early days methought that all must last;
  Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting;
But though my soul now grieves for much that’s past,
And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating,
I yet believe in mind that all will last,
Because the old in new I still am meeting.