But over all He reigneth,
Though winds and waters swell,
And clouds hide His pavilion,
Who doeth all things well.

KIT BOWDEN.

THINK of him when skies are clear,
And heaven and earth are bright,
Who labours in the mine-cave drear
Through an unchanging night.
No lark aloft is singing loud

Where frown the flint-shades dim :
No thicket-plume with song is bowed,
No daisy nods for him.

Morn opes her lofty eastern gates
With bars of brilliant sheen,
When by the shaft Kit Bowden waits
With mildness in his mien.
On the man-engine rod he stepped,
Which seemed the shaft of doom,
Dropping him down where Silence slept,
And Plutus reigned in gloom.

Down, down, from gulf to gulf he went,
Through smoke-hot sickly air,
To earn his daily bread intent:
Full twenty more were there,
On steps, upon the engine-rod,
In suits of flannel dressed,
With tallow wicks, all strangely shod;
And I among the rest.

And then, as swift as lightnings stream

Around the shattered raft,

Was heard the rush, the groan, the scream Within that dreadful shaft.

The engine-gear had snapped like tow,
And all our hopes destroyed,

Hurled headlong with the sudden blow
Into the fearful void.

I heard the rush, the roar, the groan,
When wounded on the plank :
And then Kit Bowden's earnest tone
Rang through the cavern dank.
With startling power it filled the shaft
Where many lay like

me,

With scarcely strength a sigh to waft,"My Saviour, where is He?"

It was as if an angel spoke,

Among the sharp spars nigh;

And then Kit Bowden silence broke
With shouts and praises high.
The Father's face had beamed on him
In brightness from above;

And though he had a broken limb,
His soul was filled with love.

And when the cares of life increase,
And sorrow's waves are high;
When all the brooks of comfort cease,
And every well is dry;

Then like Kit Bowden, sore dismayed,
Bruised, broken on the tree,

I sigh within the gathering shade,
"My Saviour, where is He?"

Years, years ago, when skies were bright, And trees in buds were dressed,

The angels on their wings of white

Bore him away to rest.

Yet still I hear Kit Bowden's voice

Above life's surging sea,

Which sometimes makes my heart rejoice:

"My Saviour, where is He?"

K

T

THE LAUNCH OF THE SICKLE.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO MISS TREMAYNE.

is not because her keel is firm, and safely placed her gear, Her timbers sound, her cable safe, her deck unstained and

clear,

Her slim mast shivering in the light, her pennon in the breeze, That we rejoice to launch to-day the Sickle of the seas.

No, not for this, but more because her peace-flag waves above, To woo the hardy mariner to seek the God of love :

Her aim the overthrow of wrong when war's last spoils are won,

To bear to every seaman's berth the Gospel of His Son.
Go forth to reap the ocean-waifs at the great Master's call,
For in the harvest-field of Christ there is a work for all;
And He will thy evangel bless who stilled the stormy sea,
And walked in His omnipotence the waves of Galilee.

God speed thee on thy holy work for which now set apart;
And may good news be borne by thee to many a sailor's heart!
We bind the Bible to thy prow, invoke the heavenly breeze,
And pray once more that God would bless the Sickle of the

seas.

October 31st, 1876.

W

THE FRIENDS.

HO came to me when skies were dark,
And high waves rolled upon my bark
From iron ridges sheer and stark?

The Friends.

Who cheered me when the form of Gloom
In sable vest passed through my room,
Like one in trappings of the tomb?

The Friends.

Who sat beside my stricken hearth,
When sorrow's bitterest tears had birth,
And wild weeds wrapped the reeling earth?

The Friends.

Who came with quiet, noiseless pace,
With love-words, when no other face
Or foot of man stole near my place?

The Friends.

Who gave me sympathy in woe,
And strove to ease the fearful blow
Which in a moment laid me low?

The Friends.

Who took my hand in Christian cheer, When hills were steep and dales were drear, And red-eyed Grief was cowering near? The Friends.

Who prayed for me with simplest grace, While yet the tears were on my face, Approaching Heaven's own dwelling-place? The Friends.

Who bade me trust in Him the more,
Although the waves of trouble roar
In anger on the shaken shore?

The Friends.

Who raised the reed with broken stem,
And bade me touch His garment's hem,
So that my heart is drawn to them?
The Friends.

November 6th, 1876.

THE BOY AND THE BARLEY BREAD.

VER the Sea Tiberias

The blessed Saviour went,

And trod with His disciples
The mountain's green ascent.

The flowers smiled on their Maker
With bliss-awakening eyes,

As on his car of glory

The great Sun filled the skies.