Assailed by sore temptation, by

Their fears, as clouds, encompassed round, None ever raised to Him the cry

Of faith, but full deliverance found.

And knowing this, that God is true,
Not by faith only, but by sense,
Clear as the sun that breaketh through,
And by his beams drives darkness hence.

Why do we in each present stress
Of fancied danger, e'en as though
We knew not, yielding to distress,
Oppressed with fears, desponding go?

'Tis from a false humility

The weakness springs: conscious of sin
We fear, and yet confess how free
Must grace be, for we cannot win

By our own merit; and admit

How freely offered; still by doubt We think to make ourselves more fit, And by our fears draw mercy out.

Yet doubts condemn us. Is it not

The sin for which no fountain flows? Christ's blood the Decalogue can blot, And whiten as the mountain snows.

But doubts give God the lie; and they
Who know and sin against the light
Are doubly guilty. Put away,

O man, thy doubts, and purge thy sight,

And view God as He is; receive
His word, and honour Him with faith;
Though erring, yet bold to believe,

And thou shalt triumph over death.

E. S. H.

N

ATURE in spring revives again,

And from the reign of winter breaks

In fresher beauty o'er the plain,

And all things of her joy partakes.

Then as the summer months flow round
Music and blossoms have their prime,
And autumn's waving hours are crowned
With fruit for winter's barren time.

Thus Nature dies and lives again,

And each departing season gives
A pledge that soothes the parting pain,
And hope upon the future lives.

Shall our affections know alone
Exception to the pleasing thought
That in each change of Nature's shown,
And by the spring's return is taught?

No! when from those we love we part,
A higher, holier hope is given,
That falls like balm upon the heart
That by the hand of death is riven.

Not as the flowers in spring that bloom,
Bloom but to die when summer's o'er,
We meet our loved ones from the tomb:
Ah no! we meet to part no more.

We leave the pain of parting here,
This side the grave, Love's fairest flowers
Beyond shall ne'er grow pale and sere,
But endless bloom in heavenly bowers.

E. J. H.

The Old Cherry-tree.

T is a pleasant day in early spring. I am sitting by an open window enjoying the fresh, health-giving breezes that find their way across the hills and over the valleys; that play pranks with the few dead leaves that still lie upon the ground, and rustle among

the bare branches of a large cherry-tree on the lawn before me, and then pass onward, who can say whither ?

But it is not of the breezes, pleasant as they are, that I purpose now to write. I want to jot down a few thoughts suggested to my mind by the cherry-tree on the lawn.

It is a noble specimen of its kind. Its gnarled and knotted trunk shows signs of age and decay, though the three enormous limbs into which it divides itself appear healthy and strong.

In the summer, when the fruit is ripe, the tree presents a busy scene. The jackdaws from the neighbouring church tower find their way to it and revel in the fruit it bears, flocks of chattering starlings, too, settle among its branches and take their share of the juicy spoil, until disturbed, when, with a rush and a swirl, their glossy plumage glistening in the sunshine, they betake themselves to some neighbouring place of safety, only to return again as soon as the cause of their alarm has disappeared.

For more than a century the old cherry-tree has stood where we now see it, braving the storms of winter and rejoicing in the warmth and sunshine of the beauteous summer. A hundred springs have clothed its branches with tender green, and a hundred autumns have scattered its leaves abroad.

Who can tell what changes have gone on around it during this lengthened lifetime? Other vegetation has sprung up and flourished, become old and died, only to be replaced by more, which in its turn has passed through the various stages of vegetable life, and then dropped into decay.

More than three generations of men have eaten of the fruit of the tree. Where are they now? Many, very many have passed away from this world, and are now in that happy land of which we know so little, but of which we are told that in the midst of the street of it is the tree of life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations.

Yet, though change and decay have been going on all

around, there stands the cherry-tree still. I have said that its trunk shows signs of decay; nor is this to be wondered at when we remember its great age. But there are also signs of disease, or at any rate of degeneration, in its upper branches, which are strange indeed. Far up in its topmost boughs appear several growths of twigs quite unlike the rest. At first sight they might be mistaken for parasites of some kind, but on examining them more closely it will be found that this is not the case. The curious bunches of twigs are nothing more nor less than growths of wild cherry springing from the branches of the cultivated graft. The old nature of the original stock is asserting itself; and now, in the very midst of the good fruit-bearing branches, we find small boughs of the useless, wild tree.

I cannot pretend to account for this. Can it be that while the tree itself is growing feeble from age, the root is still vigorous and strong, and is sending up into the branches and twigs the sap that produces, not the broad leaf and juicy fruit of the graft, but that which brings forth only the leaves and blossoms of the wild original? I must leave others to decide this question, and will content myself with trying to draw a few lessons from the old cherry-tree.

As Christian men and women, we all love to feel that God, in His great mercy to us, has so transformed our nature, which was originally wild and useless, and capable only of producing evil, that we are now able to bring forth good fruit, and thus to honour and glorify Him.

But can any of us say that all his branches are good, and that the natural man, the old Adam, never asserts itself and causes sad blemishes in his character? None would be so presumptuous. "If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us."

"I am the vine, ye are the branches," said our Lord. "He that abideth in Me, and I in Him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without Me ye can do nothing." Here we find revealed the cause of our unproductiveness of what is good, and our proneness to bring forth that which is evil.