Ever a something wanting,
Ever, just one link more;
Such is the hope-lit watchword
Of pilgrims to heaven's shore,
Nor till on that shore landed,
Will missed links of life's chain
Be found, and firmly welded,
To sunder ne'er again.

* * * * *






A PAINFUL HISTORY.


Three youths in the heyday of life's hopeful spring,
On a bright April morn gaily hied,
With three little skiffs, each one made by himself,
To skim o'er the silvery tide.

In the joy that awaits on all well-performed work,
Engaged in by youth, child, or man,
Whilst employing the powers which to him God has given,
And labouring as well as he can,

They pushed from the shore, their young spirits elate.