Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost,
Or scorched with the mid-day glare?
Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,
That thy face is so full of care?

"No pleasant garden toils were mine,
I have sate on the judgment seat,
Where the Master sits at eve, and calls
The children around his feet."

How camest thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, who set thee there?

'T is a lonely and lofty seat for thee,
And well might fill thee with care.

"I climbed on the judgment seat myself;
I have sate there alone all day,

For it grieved me to see the children around,
Idling their life away.

"They wasted the Master's precious seed,

They wasted the precious hours;

They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruit,
And they trampled the sweet meek flowers."

And what didst thou on the judgment seat,
Sweetheart, what didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend for thy care?

"Nay, that grieved me more; I called and I cried, But they left me there forlorn;

My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn."

Ah! the judgment seat was not for thee,
The servants were not thine;

And the eyes which fix the praise and the blame,
See farther than thine or mine.

The voice that shall sound there at eve, sweetheart,
Will not strive nor cry to be heard;

It will hush the earth, and hush the hearts,
And none will resist its word.

'Should I see the Master's treasures lost,
The gifts that should feed his poor,

And not lift my voice (be it as weak as it may),
And not be grieved sore?"

Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart,

Wait till the evening falls;

The Master is near and knoweth all,
Wait till the Master calls.

But how fared thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Whilst thou sat on the judgment seat?
Who watered thy roses, and trained thy vines,
And kept them from careless feet?

"Nay! that is saddest of all to me,

That is saddest of all!

My vines are trailing, my roses are parched,
My lilies droop and fall."

Go back to thy garden plot, sweetheart,
Go back till the evening falls,

And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,
Till for thee the Master calls.

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone;

Perchance he whose plot is next to thine,
Will see it, and mend his own.

And the next shall copy his, sweetheart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces his coming will greet.

Then shall thy joy be full, sweetheart,
In thy garden so fair to see,

In the Master's voice of praise to all,

In a look of his own for thee.

By the Author of the "Cotta Family."

Wanted, a Minister's Wife.

At length we have settled a pastor:
I am sure I cannot tell why
The people should grow so restless,
Or candidates grow so shy;
But after a two years searching

For the "smartest" man in the land,

In a fit of desperation

We took the nearest at hand.

And really, he answers nicely

To "fill up the gap," you know,

To " run the machine," and "bring up arrears," And make things generally go;

He has a few little failings,

His sermons are common-place quite,

But his manner is very charming,

And his teeth are perfectly white.

And so, of all the "dear people,"

Not one in a hundred complains,
For beauty and grace of manner

Are so much better than brains.
But the parish have all concluded
He needs a partner for life,
To shine a gem in the parlor :
"Wanted, a minister's wife!"

Wanted, a perfect lady,

Delicate, gentle, refined,

With every beauty of person,

And every endowment of mind;

Fitted by early culture

To move in fashionable life

Please notice our advertisement:

"Wanted," etc.

Wanted, a thoroughbred worker,

Who well to her household looks;

(Shall we see our money wasted

By extravagant Irish cooks?)

Ye ken, dear bairn, that we maun part,
When death, cauld death, shall bid us start,
But when he 'll send his dreadfu' cart
We canna say,

Sa we 'll be ready for his dart
Maist onie Day.

We'll keep a' right and gude wi' in,
Our work will then be free fra' sin;
Upright we 'll step thro' thick and thin,
Straight on our way;

Deal just wi' a' the prize we 'll win
Maist onie Day.

Ye ken there's ane wha 's just and wise,
Ha' said that all his bairns should rise
An' soar aboon the lofty skies,

And there shall stay;

Being well prepared, we 'll gain the prize,
Maist onie Day.

When he who made a' things just right
Shall ca' us hence to realms of light,

Be it morn, or noon, or e'en or night,
We will obey,

We 'll be prepared to tak' our flight
Maist onie Day.

X Y. Z