The Child on the Lord's Day.

My Saviour's Risen from the Dead,
And Lives Enthron'd Above;
The Price of my Salvation's Paid,
My Life is in His Love .
With Holy Sabbaths He, in Peace ,
Hath me Victorious blest;
Lord, Bring thou me, thro' Holiness ,
To Victory , and Rest .

The Child thinking on his Baptism .

Baptis'd for thee, O Glorious One,
Thee for my GOD I take:
Thee will I Love and Serve alone;
And Thee my Portion make.
My Baptism gave me unto thee;
Possess me then, O Lord;
My Father, Saviour, Leader be,
According to thy Word.

The Child at his Food .

At Eating , thus I ever shou'd
Devout and Thankful be;
My God, I Bless thee for my Food;
Let it be Bless'd to me.
A Child, that when he goes to Eat ,
Thinks not of GOD at all,
Is like the Bruits , which at their Meat
On God do never call.

The Child's Resolution.

Help me my God ! For unto thee
I do Resolve to Pray ,
To Grant thy Christ and Grace to me;
I'll do it every Day .
Heavenly Father, Give me thy Christ;
Give me thy Spirit; Pardon my Sins ;
Make me thy Servant; Bring me to thy
Kingdom; O Great GOD, who art Father,
And Son, and Holy Spirit; I Desire to be
Thine for evermore . Amen.

The Ancient Creed .

IN GOD the FATHER I Believe;
He's the Almighty One.
I JESUS CHRIST, our Lord, Receive ,
God's Dear and Only SON.
I do Adore the Holy SPIRIT;
Who is to Raise the Dead ,
And bring His People to Inherit,
Life that shall never Fade .

Aside from these, can any expert show
Where else the French have bent a mighty bow,
Shattered the white, and made the welkin ring
Till Art pictorial stayed to cheer and sing?

Let the Louvre answer from her stately pile
Where wasted canvas kindles Folly's smile;
Where masters muster; but from foreign lands —
Waiting, with quiet grace, on Art's commands;
Ready to bare their page of glory's scroll,
And answer Adsum when she calls the roll .

Édouard Manet, in his golden youth,
Led up the lightsome quest for plein-air truth.
Of fire-new technique, tender yet robust,
In his Impressions he was often just;
Fluidity of movement marked his strain,
And austere Beauty followed in its train.
Indeed 't was he, though few his cause defend,
Who gave to Gallic paint its present trend.

Far-ruling Bastien won a brittle fame
By modern methods and a kodak aim.
The style of Holbein taught him much of paint;
But failed to teach him a refined restraint.
The system of Lepage eclipsed his art
And bred a school of Bunglers for the Mart;
For, tho' he died so young, his bolt was hurled,
And paint of peasant low-life filled the world.
Countless disciples awful failures breed,
And a bad Bastien 's very bad indeed.

The group that France has realistic styled
Is made up of romantics running wild.

Had Courbet paid attention to his art,
And less to posing in the Paris mart,
And left the Vendome Column on its base,
And taught his truthful tongue a saving grace,
And travelled in the straight and narrow way —
He might have wrought some pictures in his day.
He loved the swinging Seas in shine and storm,
And limned one Wave that lives — in flawless form.

There's rue for those who seek achievement high,
And yet, en route to Failure, fall and die;
But justice, too, altho' they " do their best,"
For Time shall put their methods to the test

An expurgated Rousseau, light and gay,
Diaz could trace the sunshine's chequered play
With opalescent sou-bois tones and tints
That sparkle like the leaping flash of flints.