But 'tis a small, small part indeed Of what G.o.d had for thee to do Which I can sing; so I proceed To waft my meed of tribute through.

For I would name, with pleasure too, The part performed by thy good wife.

O, that I could in measure due Descant upon her Christian life.

No party motives sway my soul, Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame; But feelings I need not control Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.

Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame If I have sacred rapture felt In noting freely since you came, The virtues that with you have dwelt.

I frequent heard from one who saw You lying oft on bed of pain, How bright in you was love's pure glow, Meek Patience following in his train.

Now, could we see our loss your gain, Pleased we would bid you all depart; And might from vain regrets refrain Glad still to cherish you at heart.

GRUMBLINGS.

Man professes to be humble, Signs himself "your servant, sir!"

But he's very p.r.o.ne to grumble, Till it forms his character.

Grumbles he about the weather, Now too hot, anon too cold; Fancies oft 'tis both together Ere the day is twelve hours old.

Then the dryness of the season Rouses up anew his ire; Next its wetness without reason Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.

Grumbles he of prospects darkening, Now, because _hard times_ have come, And to evil promptings hearkening By much grumbling spoils his home.

Hard to please in point of dinner, Flings he grumblings at his wife, Breaking her dear heart--the sinner!

Inch by inch in daily life.

Nor at night are matters mended; Grumbles he if supper's late.

She had need to be offended, Being tied to such a mate.

For a little kind enquiry Of existing state of things Might well curb his temper fiery, As each day her troubles brings.--

Bonny Fred's about his teething, Jane is sick in bed of mumps, Chris from croup has labored breathing, Maid-of-all work has the dumps.

Often thus are grumblings marring Man's great duties in the world; Filling it with strife and jarring, Till G.o.d's judgments forth are hurled.

Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in Gross abuse of those in power, Promise well to show their might in Doing right, had they their hour.

Give it them, and still they grumble, Having not got all they want; Neither are they longer humble, Which but proves them full of _cant_.

Many will not cease their grumbling Till death puts a stop to it.

May G.o.d save all such from tumbling Into the eternal Pit!

VERSES, SUGGESTED BY THE FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON THE GREAT WESTERN R. R.

NEAR COPETOWN, ON THE NIGHT OF THE 18TH MARCH, 1859.

March, with his usual terrors armed, Resolved again to mark his flight O'er the "Great Western," which has swarmed With human freight by day and night.

Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew, Held by stern winter in reserve, He up and down the doomed track flew, But did not from his purpose swerve.

His eye he fixed upon a part-- A deep embankment on a slope, And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart While lingering near the town of Cope.

Musing, he to himself thus spoke: "Here shall my darling scheme be tried; I and my gang at one bold stroke Can easily produce a slide.

"Better to serve my purpose foul I'll fix it for the eighteenth night, And raise such storm as may appal The bravest soul that lacks daylight!"

Then, as by some mysterious spell He called for elemental strife.

Forth came dread clouds as black as h.e.l.l That seemed with every mischief rife.

Impelled by many a howling blast, Uniting in terrific roar, They down their fearful contents cast, And quickly a deep chasm tore.

The midnight train came rushing on, Nor dreamt the pa.s.sengers of death.

Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn G.o.d would call some to yield their breath.

With furious speed the Iron Horse Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep, While raging elements their force Spend as if laughing at the leap.

Dragged swiftly down is every car Save one, the last of all the train, And still the storm prolongs the war With drifting snow or pelting rain.

Imagination scarce conceives The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails, Which rent the air! One yet believes They did exceed what's told in tales.

And still the wind its keenest darts Hurls at the living and the dead.

Blest then were those whose fearful hearts Could cling to Christ who for them bled.

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS FAWCETT WHO LOST HIS LIFE BY THE ACCIDENT ABOVE MENTIONED.

Fawcett, twelve years have swiftly fled Since first we one another knew.

Then mutual sufferings quickly led To friendship which but stronger grew.

The Angel Death hath ta'en thy wife From thy loved arms to dwell above; I the sweet partner of my life Had lost, and sadly missed her love.

Joy seized our sympathetic souls As each to each his trials told; We found that Bible Truth consoles For loss of wives--worth more than gold.

Left with young families each was soon Compelled again to seek a mate; In love Heaven gave once more the boon Of partners suiting well our state.

Laboring as Gospel Minister, Thou Brantford left for other place, Yet did thou not, I can aver, Neglect to tell of G.o.d's rich grace.

n.o.bly thy work thou did'st pursue, With a fair share of good success; Daily grew clearer in thy view The Scripture plan of Happiness.

At last amongst the poor Red Men, Who needed much thy pastoral care, Thy lot was cast, and O how fain They were such ministry to share.