And I would read the rules of sacred life; Persuade the troubled soul to patience; The husband care, and comfort to the wife, To child and servant due obedience; Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace, That love might live, and quarrels all might cease. Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, Confession unto all that are convicted, And patience unto all that are displeased, And comfort unto all that are afflicted, And mercy unto all that have offended, And grace to all, that all may be amended. NICHOLAS BRETON. * * * * * THE PASTOR'S REVERIE. The pastor sits in his easy-chair, With the Bible upon his knee. From gold to purple the clouds in the west Are changing momently; The shadows lie in the valleys below, And hide in the curtain's fold; And the page grows dim whereon he reads, "I remember the days of old." "Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, The pastor's memories are; No day that is gone was shadowless, No night was without its star; But mingled bitter and sweet hath been The portion of his cup: "The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, "In love hath bound us up." Fleet flies his thoughts over many a field Of stubble and snow and bloom, And now it trips through a festival, And now it halts at a tomb; Young faces smile in his reverie, Of those that are young no more, And voices are heard that only come With the winds from a far-off shore. He thinks of the day when first, with fear And faltering lips, he stood To speak in the sacred place the Word To the waiting multitude; He walks again to the house of God With the voice of joy and praise, With many whose feet long time have pressed Heaven's safe and blessèd ways. He enters again the homes of toil, And joins in the homely chat; He stands in the shop of the artisan; He sits, where the Master sat, At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast. But who to-day are the poor, And who are the rich? Ask him who keeps The treasures that ever endure. Once more the green and the grove resound With the merry children's din; He hears their shout at the Christmas tide, When Santa Claus stalks in. Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars On the distant mountain-side, Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook Where the fierce young troutlings hide. And now he beholds the wedding train To the altar slowly move, And the solemn words are said that seal The sacrament of love. Anon at the font he meets once more The tremulous youthful pair, With a white-robed cherub crowing response To the consecrating prayer.