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CONSIDER.

The jewel in the Lotus!" hidden like a gem Within this quaint conceit,

Is a pure thought; is the fair lotus flower, On any stream as sweet

As the most lonely, loveless child, whose birth Not even mother welcomed to the earth?

Lotus, the ooze is black, and lizards hide

Deep in thy river-bed.

From source as impure, lo! the lily heart

Of the child oft is fed.

Lotus, thy leaf-stalk springeth from dark ooze,

Yet, thou hast beauty, but a child must lose

That dewy whiteness that makes beautiful The tremulous child heart,

O, mystery of life, God's lilies pure

May crown the stems that start
From darkest loam in life's deep river-bed!
Consider thou the jewel; be it said,

Humbly above the poorest child we see,
It surely must surprise

Its angel, that the jewel in the flower
Is dim to human eyes,

When every child-face lifted, softly glows
With play of light no jewel ever shows.

The face is half transparent with pure light,
As lilies always are

Sun shone upon; pure chalices of hearts
This grace with tilies share,

And from within, the softened gleams do show
Transfiguring the saddest face we know.
And is not the soul-casket lotus like,
The jewel shining thro'

Just as the sunlight thro' the lilies' heart?
O, blind are we unto

The light on tender lips, and in soft eyes;
The jewel!- God's own jewel underlies.

The petals of the lotus! Ours the bitter loss
If we, indeed, are blind,

And will not see the jewel that our God
Hath to our sight refined,
Softening its luster 'neath so thin a veil,
Consider thou the jewel lest the luster pale.

Consider thou the jewel! Only God's dear hand

Can touch our eyes, shut lid,

And make its white threads tremble tenderly To see God's jewels hid

In caskets that the rudest hands have marred.
O! saddest thing in life, God's lilies scarred,

And touched by mildew, blighted everyway,
Tainted by breath and touch.
Remember thou the jewel, thro' ail earthly

scath!

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Are we so wise to always count our pearls?
Are we so wise to test

The fitness of the souls to whom we give?
The wild rose gives her best

In answer to the treading of rough hoofs;
And all the pasture-lands,

And all the windings of the woodland paths,
As if some angel hands

Had swung their censers, are so sweet, so sweet!

There nothing is beside

As sweet and simple as the brier-rose,
Save heart that ne'er denied

In thought, the drops of sweetness wrung from it,

Or crushed out in the press

Of careless feet. True hearts make their own pearls,

Whenever, in the stress

Of woe, or fear, they send the pure tears forth.

How many drops exude

From every heart. Are any really lost?

Few of the multitude

Notice their gleam, or stay their feet at all,
Yet angels note our tears;

For heaven's Golden Vials are they kept
Garnered with the Saints' prayers.

MORRIS C. PENNOCK.

BORN: CHESTER CO., PA., MAY 22, 1829. IN his early childhood his parents emigrating westward, settled on a farm near Salem, Ohio, where, during youth and early manhood, his time was mainly devoted to agricultural labors, private study, and teaching

MORRIS C. PENNOCK.

in the public schools of the county. From these alone did he receive any assistanee in his own education. In 1857 he entered a store in Salem, and in the fall of 1862 removed to what is now the city of Alliance, Ohio, where he has since been engaged in the hardware and banking business. In 1856 he was married to Miss Emma E. Wright, who died in 1862, and he was again married in 1868 to Mrs. Elizabeth A. Keith nee Colestock, who still gracefully presides in their pleasant home. Mr. Pennock's tastes are decidedly literary and artistic; and during the earlier years of life his leisure hours were frequently employed in poetic composition, mostly of a rural and domestic character. Many of his articles were published in The National Era of Washington City, The Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia, and in several local journals.

KITTIE.

O, darling little Kittie,

The child of our delight!
Her limbs are full of motion,
Her face is full of light;
Her eyes are speaking daisies,
Her hair a crown of curls,
Her checks two dimpled roses,
Her teeth a string of pearls.
Out in the blooming clover
Sweet with the hum of bees,
Down where the early cherries
Hang blushing on the trees,
Across the dewy meadow,
Then back upon the lawn,
Her childish ditties humming
She gambols like a fawn.
The pretty birds above her,
Pause in their merry song
To listen to her music

And watch her trip along;
The butterflies that hover
Above each blooming bed
Choose her, the sweetest blossom,

And rest upon her head.

O, darling little Kittie

So thoughtful yet so gay!

Your heart is warm and trustful

And gentle as the day;

To you the world's an Eden,

Your life a happy dream,

The sky a sea of glory,

And all things what they seem.

Bright morning of existence,
Sweet buds of promise there,
These are the Lord's Evangels
His kingdom to declare:-
Except as little children,
As teachable and pure
We gain no home eternal,
No lasting bliss secure.

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SPRING.

Spring is here! spring is here

With her light and song! With her skies so deeply clear, With her blossoms ever dear,

And her tuneful throng; O'er the upland, down the glade, Through the orchard's springing shade, And the gardens newly made

See her trip along!

Merry spring! dancing spring!
Joy is all her own;
Happy birds on painted wing
Lightly flit and gaily sing

Round her verdant throne; While the wild bee's drowsy hum, And the pheasant's muffled drum On the fragrant zephyrs come With a soothing tone.

Melting spring, gushing spring!
Thou art flush with love;
With its tones thy forests ring,

Through its breath thy blossoms bring
Raptures from above;

From thy smiles its soul distills,
And the youthful spirit fills
"Til its bosom heaves and thrills
Like a wounded Dove.

Cheering spring,- blessed thing!
Oh, I love thee well!
And to thy sweet bosom cling
With a fervent worshipping

Far too dear to tell.
God's approving smile thou art
On the fond, adoring heart
Stamping virtue's sacred art
With its magic spell.

A DOMESTIC ODE. There's a dainty little lady With a bright and cheerful air, With a voice of sweetest music And with silken, sunny hair, Who has floated down the current Where time's rippl'ing waters shine Till her life has reached its summer And has drifted into mine.

Deep in toils and cares domestic
In her household, day by day,
She's a Martha in her serving

In a swift but quiet way;

With her love for Christ the Savior, With her faith of head and heart She's a Mary in devotion

Seeking well the better part.

Not a bee that sips its nectar

From the painted blooms of spring, Better loves the richer glories That the days of summer bring; Not a bird that soars in music

Chanted by its kindred throng, Worships more than she the rapture Wafted on the voice of song.

Other steps may be more graceful
Other forms may be more fair;
Other tongues proclaim more loudly
All they suffer, do and dare;
But a heart more sweet and tender
And a soul more free from strife,

And a foot more swift in mercy
Never trod the ways of life.

Not a duchess clad in purple,
Boasting of a royal line,
She's a princess crown'd by nature,
She's a queen by right divine;
With a happy home her empire

And a loving heart her throne, Where she sits and reigns triumphant With a magic all her own.

Thrones may fall and kingdoms perish
In the grinding mill of time,
And the proudest works of genius
Fade and crumble at their prime,
But her scepter of affection

Shall out-reach the years of life;
For her will is my good pleasure-
She's my own, my darling wife.

LOOK UP.

Whilst thou art onward sailing
Upon the sea of life,

With hearts around thee failing
Amid the roaring strife;
Whilst angry waves are heaving
Thy bark in danger's path,
And bolts of passion cleaving

The stormy sky in wrath;
Let not thy soul be sickened
By sights of danger near,
But stayed by hope and quicken'd,
Be free from every fear.

What if the way be clouded

And fenced around with snares,
The every pleasure shrouded
In sorrows and in cares?
What if thy heart seems bursting
Beneath its weight of grief,
And all thy spirit thirsting

In vain, for sweet relief?
Is there not one who kindly
Protects thee night and day?
Whilst thou art toiling blindly,
Directs thy lonely way?

Look to that power, ever,

And when deep sorrow's waves Seem drowning hope forever, Trust in the arm that saves. See, not a sparrow falling, Escapes his watchful sight, Think then a true heart calling On him, he e'er will slight? Ah no, but still forgiving

And gracious to the last, He'll give it hope while living, And peace when life is past.

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His livid features wore a smile,

His wrinkled hands were clasped in prayer, While living death, a master vile,

Made all his flesh a thoroughfare For swift and myriad-footed pain. And all the while he sang his strain; Then spake the king with stirring call, And bade him halt, and with his train The king moved on with care withal, And questioned him with pitying gaze. ..How sing you thus these words of praise When life is death?" A moment's pause. Then smiling answered he: ..I raise

My voice in songs of joy, because,
Although a leper vile, I know

That as my frame decays I grow
More near the sure deliverance
That comes from God, whose graces flow
Through all the wastes of circumstance,
And moves my soul and life to Him."

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