L LITTLE CHILDREN. OVE divine its word hath spoken; To the earnest, seeking spirit, Of its heavenly rest. Oh, the bleffing, the rich bleffing! Is it thine and mine? Who are they, the true recipients Of the Love Divine? Have ye love, like little children? Do your angels, near the Father, See his face alway? Then are ye within the kingdom! Hold the bleffing up! This the "mystic hydrome In life's golden cup. 'T was o'erturned when Eden's exiles Closed the garden door, But refilled again, forever Circling life with noble meaning And angelic lore, When the Holy Dove descended Upon Jordan's shore. Little children, young and aged, From your golden cup! Love is the eternal childhood; Hither all must come, Who the kingdom would inherit Of the Heavenly Home. WHEN KINDRED MEET TOGETHER. OW happy is it and how sweet, HOW When kindred kind appear! And when in unity we meet As we obligéd are! Each bleffing which on one doth fall, Will multipliéd be; And prove a bleffing to us all, As long as we agree. As from high hills a fhower of rain Along the valleys trills, And as they vapour up again A moift'ning for those hills: The flendereft threads together wound, And smalleft rods, if closely bound, But if we those asunder take, So if in concord we abide, If true in heart we prove, We may the more be fortified By interchange of love. Let us therefore, who now have met, That we do not the same forget, Let none of us delight to tell, Or faulty may appear. But let each of us our own crimes, With others' errors weigh; And seek the fitteft means and times, To mend them what we may. If malice injure any one To whom allied we are, Let us repute the wrong as done Yea, if a grief, a loss, a fhame, To one of us befall; Let us be tender of the same, As grievous to us all. So we that are but linked yet By death fhall be undone; Shall be forever one. George Wither. T HERE is a plant that in its cell And bends its ftalk, and folds its leaves And thus there is a conscious nerve That from the rash and careless hand The preffure rude, the touch severe, A nameless thrill, a secret tear, Oh, you who are by nature form'd Each thought refined to know! |