But you need not be lost, all people are not bad,
The Lord has servants good, as He has ever had;
They’ll find you in your grief, and lend a helping hand,
And point the road that leads up to the “Better Land.”

Remember this, my child, wherever you may go,
That God rules over all, though it may not seem so;
And what you sow, you’ll reap, with joy or misery,
If not in time, O, surely in eternity.

TOO LATE.

A dear old friend of mine is very ill, I hear,
I have not seen his face for many a weary year. 
Ah, many toilsome days we’ve spent with little train,
And he was poor and weak, but never would complain.

I knew his fears and hopes, he knew my hopes and fears. 
We shared each other’s joys and wept each other’s tears! 
He had his faults, and I oft sinned in word and deed;
But through our troubles all, we seldom disagreed.

And when we did, we soon were truly reconciled;
So, while we might have quarrelled, we compromised and smiled. 
But fortune bade us part; we bid good-bye at last,
Each toiled as bravely on as both had in the past.

I’ve written him, and he has answered prompt and true;
But we have never met as we had promised to. 
For he was busy there and I was busy here,
And so our lots were cast apart from year to year.

But when a mutual friend told me this afternoon
That he was very sick and wished to see me soon,
I left my home at once and on the earliest train
I’m speeding to his home across the distant plain.

He looks for me! and I, to reach him scarce can wait,
O, for the lightning’s speed! that I may not be late. 
The fields seem spinning round, the trees seem flying past,
The engine thunders on, the station’s reached at last.

And to my friend I haste, to greet him as of yore,
Rejoicing in his thrift, I pause beside his door. 
A servant asks me in, and there upon his bed,
Behold my dear old friend, who sent for me—­just dead!

I speak his name once more, and check the rising tears,
And kiss his honest face, changed little through the years. 
“He asked for you,” they said, but could no longer wait;
Alas! alas! to be but fifteen minutes late.

AFTER THE SHOWER.

After the shower the fields are green,
  The winds are hushed, the air is cool,
The merry children now are seen
  Barefoot wading the wayside pool,
  Loitering on their way to school,
        After the morning shower.

After the shower the farmers walk
  Around their homes with thanks sincere. 
The shower is foremost in their talk,
  See! how it makes their crops appear,
  The finest seen for many a year. 
        Thanks for the gentle shower.

Westward the dark clouds roll away
  To vanish in the ether blue,
Eastward the curtains light and gay
  Exclude the glorious sun from view
  Till, as they shift, he flashes through
        And lights the charming scene.