'Yea, brighten up! for in this life The very wind that sweeps around 'Yet ever with us still remain 'Teach us to have a holy fear 'Be it affection of good men, Or hate of cruel foes; Be firm! yield not! your life full well, Thus will we take our quit of thee, Till in that other land we meet, Farewell, dear friend, farewell!' Composed at Brawby, during December, 1887, in memory of the Rev. William Abbey, who for nearly half a century was vicar of Salton, of which the village of Brawby forms a part. He died in November, 1887, aged 76. In his manners, words and actions, he exhibited all the evidences of a self-sacrificing Christian gentleman, and day by day showed to all around the beauty of Christian holiness by the example of a pure and blameless, as well as a loving and considerate life. His death seemed as the removal of a lighthouse or landmark from some rocky, dangerous coast. The quiet good that such a life reflects, however, even when the author of it has passed away, is not to be estimated or known in this world. He it was who engaged me to come to Brawby, and for his unfailing courtesy and considerate kindness towards me, I shall always revere his memory. THE DISCIPLE'S CRY. HELP, Lord! help! I perish but for thee! Oh, Saviour, friend of sinners, help! Bear with me patiently. I've pierced Thee often, Lord, Since I have known Thy way; Urged by the Tempter on; To rob me of my soul, of Thee, And every hope of heaven. And, oh! I fell, dear Lamb of Calvary, For with my strength I'd striven; I never leaned on Thee, Nor looked to Thee for aid, Or else those tears of penitence Had never been displayed. Yea, I have wandered far from Thee, But Thou art ever kind Thou knowest what's in man ; Thou dost remember we are dust; Our lives are but a span ! Lo! now my days are hastening on Swift as this fleeting breath; Soon, soon I must be gone, My heart-throbs cease in death. But oh! I would for time to come, In days which still remain, Before the setting of life's sun, For ever o'er the plain ; Lean on Thee, Lord, in every storm, Aye, every trivial gale; And thus shall I the victory win, For Thou dost never fail ! WHEN THE STORMS. WHEN the storms of life are over, We shall be like Him, By-and-by. When the sins of life are over, And the winnowing days are done, We shall stand before the Saviour We shall see Him, etc. When the joys of life are over, We shall live for ever with Him There for ever and for ever, While eternity shall roll, In that haven of the soul. We shall see Him, etc. THE LITTLE MAIDEN. A FLOWERET by the wayside, The primrose mid the woodlands They speak of God and beauty, Whose matchless skill doth trace Their gem-like forms so lovely, Tell of a love immortal So innocent, so guileless, They twine around affections, Or music of sweet waters That murmur mid the hills. |