_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, 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!

TYROL: 1882.