"Himself hath done it.'-Then I fain would say,

Thy will in all things evermore be done;'

E'en though that will remove whom best I love: While Jesus lives I cannot be alone.

"Himself hath done it.'-Precious, precious words;

Himself,' my Father, Saviour, Brother, Friend; Whose faithfulness no variation knows;

Who, having loved me, loves me to the end.

"And when, in his eternal presence blest, I at his feet my crown immortal cast, I'll gladly own, with all his ransomed saints, 'Himself hath done it'-all, from first to last."

* AND SO HE BRINGETH THEM TO THE HAVEN WHERE THEY WOULD BE.”

"YES, billow after billow-see they come
Faster and rougher, as yon little boat
Nears evermore the haven. Oftentimes
It seems to sink and fall adown the wave,
As if borne backward by the struggling tide;
Yet mounting billow after billow, wave
On wave o'er-riding, tempest-tossed and shattered,
Still, still it nears the haven evermore.

'Poor mariner! art not thou sadly weary?'
Dear brother, rest is sweeter after toil.

'Grows not thine eye confused and dim with sight
Of nothing but the wintry waters?' True;
But then my pole-star, constant and serene,
Above the changing waters, changes not.
'But what if clouds as often veil the sky?'
Oh, then an unseen hand hath ever ta'en
The rudder from my feeble hands the while;
And I cling to it. 'Answer me once more,
Mariner; what think'st thou when the waters

beat

Thy frail boat backward from the longed-for harbour?'

Oh, brother, though innumerable waves
Still seem to rise betwixt me and my home,
I know that they are numbered; not one less
Should bear me homeward, if I had my will;
For One who knows what tempests are to weather,
O'er whom there broke the wildest billows once,
He bids these waters swell. In his good time
The last rough wave shall bear me on its bosom,
Into the haven of eternal peace.

No billows after! They are numbered, brother. 'Oh, gentle mariner, steer on, steer on;

My tears still flow for thee, but they are tears
In which faith strives with grief, and overcomes.""

"THE BORDER LAND."

"I HAVE been to a land, a Border Land,

Where there was but a strange, dim light; Where shadows and dreams, in a spectral band, Seem'd real to the aching sight.

I scarce bethought me how there I came,
Or if thence I should pass again;

Its morning and night were marked by the flight
Or coming of woe and pain.

"But I saw from this land, this Border Land, With its mountain ridges hoar,

That they look'd across to a wondrous strand,-
A bright and unearthly shore.

Then I turn'd me to Him, 'the Crucified,'
In most humble faith and prayer,

Who had ransom'd with blood my sinful soul,
For I thought He would call me there.

"Yet nay: for a while in the Border Land
He bade me in patience stay,

And gather rich fruits with a trembling hand,
Whilst he chased its gloom away:
He had led me amidst those shadows dim,
And shown that bright world so near,

To teach me that earnest trust in Him
Is the one thing needful' here.

"And so from the land, the Border Land,

I have turn'd me to earth once more;
But earth and its works were such trifies, scann'd
By the light of that radiant shore.

And oh! should they ever possess me again
Too deeply, in heart and hand,

I must think how empty they seem'd, and vain,
From the heights of the Border Land.

"The Border Land had depths and vales, Where sorrow for sin was known;

Where small seem'd great, as weighed in scales,
Held by God's hand alone.

'Twas a land where earthly pride was naught,
Where the poor were brought to mind,
With their scanty bed, their fireless cot,
And their bread so hard to find.

"But little I heard in the Border Land,
Of all that pass'd below;

The once loud voices of human life
To the deafen'd ear were low.

I was deaf to the clang of its trumpet call,
And alike to its gibe or its sneer;

Its riches were dust, and the loss of all

Would then scarce have cost a tear,

"I met with a Friend in this Border Land,

Whose teachings can come with power
To the blinded eye and the deafen'd ear,
In affliction's loneliest hour.
'Times of refreshing' to the soul,
In languor, oft He brings,
Prepares it then to meditate

On high and glorious things.

"Oh! Holy Ghost! too often grieved
In health and earthly haste,
I bless those slow and silent hours
Which seem'd to run to waste.

I would not but have pass'd those 'depths,'
And such communion known,

As can be held in the Border Land
With Thee, and Thee alone.

"I have been to a land, a Border Land! May oblivion never roll

O'er the mighty lessons which there and then
Have been graven on my soul!

I have trodden a path I did not know,
Safe in my Saviour's hand:

I can trust Him for all the future, now
I have been to the Border Land”