THE PHYSICIAN.

Is life sad for lost love's sake, Falls a blight upon thy bliss, Smiles no more their sunshine make, Lips estranged withhold their kiss? For thy consolation take Some such song as this:— Shine on us, O Morning Star! Help our weeping eyes to see; Never may we deem things are What to us they seem to be; Rise, Thou Dayspring, and afar Bid the shadows flee! Jesu, Thou art swift to bless, Strong to comfort, skilled to heal; Failure is with Thee success, Woe the forerunner of weal; Every stroke is a caress, Every crust a meal. Master, Thou canst raise the dead From the grave, the bed, the bier,[4] Souls astray, forlorn, misled, Buffeted by doubt and fear, Cannot but be comforted When Thou drawest near. Sweeter than the Sunday-bells Banishing all week-day cares, Thine the gracious voice that tells What a Father's love prepares, Leading to salvation's wells Up God's altar-stairs. Lord, Thou art the Master-singer, And Thy song is a recall; Many on life's pathway linger, Many by life's wayside fall, But Thy Heart, the comfort-bringer, Is a Home for all!