"I ask no brighter hue," the rose replied, "Both old and young smile on me as they pass, My buds adorn the bosom of the bride, And hide among the locks of lovely lass; With fragrance, too, I own myself content, For naught on earth surpasses me in this; But if, indeed, my Maker thee has sent I ask but this, to consummate my bliss: "I feel the cold, both in my bark and bud, When Autumn winds sweep o'er the western hill, And frozen dewdrops oft my branches stud, Which mar my beauty and my juices chill. Give me an extra garb, 'tis all I lack." "Thou hast thy wish, I shelter found in thee, I take delight in kind to pay thee back. Let softest moss thy extra garment be." Then touched the angel bark, and bud, and leaf, And soft green moss suffused it o'er and o'er. He lingered near it for a moment brief, Plucked off a bud, which he to heaven bore; And now the rose smiles at the raging storm, Defies the wind and nipping frost as well; Its fragrance still retains, and lovely form, While nestling budlets this old story tell. GOD'S CARE I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar, Nor dread the huge breakers on the rock-girded shore; Thy presence is with me, my refuge is near, With help all-sufficient; oh, why should I fear? Tho' billows of sorrow should roll o'er my head, My sun sink in darkness, and joys be all dead, Thy presence will cheer me, and spectres will flee, For who can molest me while trusting in thee? MY LOT My lot on earth is not all mirth, Nor is it constant gloom; Some joys decay and fall away, But leave much lasting bloom. My wishes are not always met, And cares press hard at times; Yet joyous strains ne'er sink to fret, Tho' dollars shrink to dimes. My earthly lot boasts not a cot, No foot of land I own, No bank account nor phosphate mount, Nor credit for a loan; But I can read my title clear To mansion, robe, and crown; I couple these with lot down here, And sing, tho' foes may frown. GOD'S FOOT ON THE CRADLE The air is chill with the frost of doubt, And men's hearts are sadly failing; They do not hear the great Victor's shout; But indulge in bitter wailing. "The old gives place to the new," they say, "And fond hopes are daily buried; Our cherished views are oft borne away, As if by the tempest hurried. "The world is stirred to its very heart, And the Church shares the commotion; With systems old, we are loathe to part, To sail on an unknown ocean. The world now heaves like the great sea's breast, And rocks like an infant's cradle; And looking up, by sore grief oppressed, We find the sky draped in sable." I will not fear, though the earth should rock, If God's foot be on the cradle; But rest in peace midst the tempest's shock, Rejoicing that God is able To still the world with His mighty hand, If His timid child should waken; Or, if it rock, He will by me stand; And my heart shall not be shaken. GOD'S GIFTS TO BE ENJOYED