HIS NAME SHALL BE IN THEIR FOREHEADS. When I shall go where my Redeemer is, Shall loose my sandals, ever to abide ; Oh, joy! oh, bliss! for I shall see His face, And wear His blessed name upon my brow! The name that stands for pardon, love, and grace, That name before which every knee shall bow. No music half so sweet can ever be As that dear name which He shall write for me! Crowned with this royal signet, I shall walk With lifted forehead through the eternal street; And with a holier mien, and gentler talk, Will tell my story to the friends I meetOf how the King did stoop His name to write Upon my brow, in characters of light! Then, till I go to meet my Father's smile, I'll keep my forehead smooth from passion's scars, From angry frowns that trample and defile, And every sin that desecrates or mars; That I may lift a face unflushed with shame, Whereon my Lord may write His holy name. Rebecca S. Palfrey Utter. THE KING'S DAUGHTER. Her Father sent her in His land to dwell, She walks erect through dangers manifold, Because she is the daughter of a King. E'en when the angel comes that men call Death, Her heart rejoices that her Father calls For though the land she dwells in is most fair, Set round with streams, a picture in its frame, Yet often in her heart deep longings are For that Imperial Palace whence she came. Not perfect quite seems any earthly thing, Because she is the daughter of a King. Annie Douglas Robinson. (MARIAN DOUGLAS.) 1842. TWO PICTURES. An old farm-house with meadows wide From this dull spot, the world to see, How happy I should be!" Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, benry Abbey. 1842. THE STATUE. In Athens, when all learning centred there, And on the top, that dwindled to the sight, And he who, with the beauty in his heart, Seeking in faultless work immortal youth, Would mould this statue with the finest art, Making the wintry marble glow with truth, Should gain the prize. Two sculptors sought the fame; The prize they craved was an enduring name. Alcamenes soon carved his little best ; But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought A statue, and its face of changeless stone Then to be judged, the labors were unveiled; Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. "The lines are coarse; the form too large," said these; "And he who sends this rough result of haste Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste.” Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high Upon the capital where it might stand; But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst the sky Had no proportion from the uplooking land ; So it was lowered, and quickly put aside, And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried. Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd, And changed them as a sudden breeze may change A field of fickle grass, and long and loud Their mingled shouts to see a sight so strange. The statue stood completed in its place, Each coarse line melted to a line of grace. So bold, great actions, that are seen too near, In their true grandeur. Let us yet be wise |