Is there a saint, however poor,
      However lowly born,
    That earthly treasure could allure
      Thee to mistreat or scorn? 
    These queries, are they answered well? 
      Then press with joy toward Heaven,
    Filled with that peace tongue cannot tell,
      The sense of sin forgiven.

    Accept your Saviour’s proffered rest! 
      Behold! there’s grace for thee;
    All those who love Him now are blest,—­
      Love in sincerity.

THEY’RE COMING!

    They’re coming!  And it seems so long
    Since sadly autumn laid them low. 
    They left us with the robin’s song,
    They left us to the ice and snow.

    They’re coming!  So the March wind saith. 
    Though singing songs with icy breath,
    He’s chanting of another May,
    He’s chanting of King Winter’s death.

    They’re coming!  ’Neath the forest’s mold,
    In mossy beds of ferny soil,
    Slowly their tiny robes unfold,
    Yet do they neither spin nor toil.

    They’re coming!  With their influence pure,
    Their emblematic power again
    Of him who would our steps allure
    To realms of love, devoid of pain.

    They’re coming!  With the summer’s breeze,
    With azure skies and sunny showers,
    With notes of birds and hum of bees—­
    Who will not welcome back the flowers?