So tired; my friends are gone,
And I am left alone,

And days are sad.

Lord Jesus, Thou wilt bear my load
Along this steep and dreary road,
And make me glad.

So tired; my heart is low,
Shadows of coming woe

Around me fall;

And memories of sins long wept,

And hopes denied, that long have slept, Arise and call.

So tired; yet I would work

For Thee! Lord, hast Thou work
Even for me?

Small things which others, hurrying on
In Thy blest service swift and strong,
Might never see?

So tired; yet I might reach

A flower to cheer and teach

Some sadder heart.

Or for parched lips perhaps might bring One cup of water from the spring,

Ere I depart.

So tired; yet it were sweet
Some faltering, tender feet
To help and guide;

Thy little ones whose steps are slow,
I should not weary them, I know,
Nor roughly chide.

So tired; Lord Thou wilt come
And take me to my home,
So long desired.

Only Thy grace and mercy send,
That I may serve Thee to the end,
Though I am tired.

NLY a little dust

ONLY

So small that a rose might hide it; And I trust in God- —or I try to trust, When I kneel in the dark beside it.

I kneel in the dark and say,

I only dream that I weep;

She would not leave me and go away -
She has only fallen asleep.

Fallen asleep, as oft

She climbed to my heart to rest,

Her white arms twining my neck, as soft
As down on a dove's sweet breast.

Tenderly, unawares,

Sleep came in the waning light,

And kissed her there on the twilight stairs,
That lead to the morning light.

And that she will wake I know,
And smile at a grief like this;
It could not be she would leave me so
With never a good-night kiss.

So I kneel in the dark and say,
I only dream that I weep;

She would not leave me and go away -
She has only fallen asleep.

GRIEF fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts,

Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

One Writes that Other Friends Remain

NE writes, that "Other friends remain,"

ONE

That "Loss is common to the race,"

And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more;
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

S%

The Little Watcher

O tired looking out of the window,
And up at the cold gray sky,
And down on the streams of people
That never and never get by!

I wonder how long I've waited
Alone in the darkness here,
Watching to see him coming –
I think it must be a year.

I needn't have stood and listened
For his footsteps, day by day,

If only I'd heard them saying

A word of his going away.

For nobody thought to tell me,

Though I missed and missed him so;
But all of the house seems empty,
And that is the way I know.

I'm hungry to have him kiss me,
And I think as each night grows dim,

He will come if his heart keeps aching

For me as mine aches for him.

I've waited so long to tell him

That I've heard two robins sing:

And I want to show him my snowdrops, And to ask if it is almost spring.

"Hark! there's a step on the pavement

Like his, but

it passes by;

I'll hide in the shade of the curtain,

Where nobody sees, and cry."

Ah, pitiful little weeper,

Nursing your grief so dumb, You are but one of the watchers

Whose darlings will never come!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.