[These memoranda are continued, and the voice of intercession
was not in vain; for within a short time, thirty new members were
added to the little village society]."
TO MY MARY.
Why does my Mary look so sad,
And wear a pensive air?
Where can the antidote be had
To banish gloomy care?
Say, why your spirits sink and droop;
Will Jesus not return?
Arise, He calleth you, look up;
O'er you His bowels yearn.
No sorrow can the bosom feel,
But Jesus' love can cure;
The wounded spirit He can heal,
The fainting heart assure.
The humble, contrite sinner shares
His kind, observing eye;
He sees your tears, He hears your prayers,
And will regard your cry.
Arise, and shake you from the dust,
Arise, 'He calleth _you_;'
With filial boldness dare to trust,
And find His promise true.
So gloom and sadness shall retreat,
And peace and joy return;
For while you sit at Jesus' feet,
Your heart with love will burn.
"Saw a letter from dear little John, informing his sister that he,
with others of his school-fellows, has entered the Methodist Society.
He is just about the same age I was, when I received my first ticket;
and from connexion with this people my name has never been erased,
though hundreds of times I have not deserved the privilege of
membership; but the people have borne with me, and more than this,
God has borne with me, even till now. Glory be to God for ever!--Some
struggle through life, and through successive years, are tossed on
stormy seas; others more calmly pass their appointed time; but such as
die in infancy, fly as a bird to its rest, and are privileged with an
early entrance into glory.
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