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He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal!

Humbled beneath his mighty hand,
Prostrate, his providence adore:
'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand,
To fall no more.

Now, trav'ller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Thro' Time's dark wilderness of years.
Pursue thy flight.

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
And while the mould'ring ashes sleep
Low in the ground,

The soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image freed from clay,
In heav'n's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day!

The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE!

MONTGOMERY.

THE DOVE.

THE dove let loose in eastern skies,

Returning fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay;

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from earthly care,
From pride and passion free,
Aloft, through faith and love's pure air,
To hold my course to thee.

No lure to tempt, no art to stay
My soul, as home she springs;
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom on her wings.

MOORE.

THE DECEITFULNESS OF THE WORLD.

In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are

blest,

We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow's unknown, and the weary have

rest.

But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,

Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,

Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright

ray.

Then where are those bowers, in some gay happy

plain,

Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;

ere the brightness of morning shines on but to gain

A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

Oh! ask for if not, in this valley of sighs,

Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;

For the world we would wish, shines afar in the

skies,

Where sorrow's unknown-'tis the home of the

blest!

WEIR.

HEAVENLY MINSTREL.

ENTHRON'D upon a hill of light,
A heav'nly minstrel sings;
And sounds, unutterably bright,
Spring from the golden strings.
Who would have thought so fair a form
Once bent beneath an earthly storm!

Yet was he sad and lonely here;
Of low and humble birth;

And mingled, while in this dark sphere,
With meanest sons of earth.

In spirit poor, in look forlorn,
The jest of mortals and the scorn.

A crown of heav'nly radiance now,
A harp of golden strings,
Glitters upon his deathless brow,
And to his hymn-note rings.

The bow'r of interwoven light

Seems, at the sound, to grow more bright.

Then while with visage blank and sear,

The poor in soul we see;

Let us not think what he is here,

But what he soon will be;

And look beyond this earthly night,

To crowns of gold, and bow'rs of light.

EDMESTON.

EVENING HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O LORD, another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a list'ning ear,

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.

And Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deigu,
As we before thee pray!

For thou didst bless the infant train,
And are we less than they?

O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,

A flock by Jesus led;

The sun of Holiness shall shine,

In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wand'ring feet,

And thou wilt bless our way;

'Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet The dawn of lasting day.

H. K. WHITE.

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PRAYER.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Unutter'd or exprest;

The motion of a hidden fire,
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an ye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death,
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And say, "Behold he prays!"

The saints in prayer appear as one
In word, and deed, and mind,
When with the Father and his Son,
Their fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone,
The Holy spirit pleads;

And Jesus on the eternal throne
For sinners intercedes.

O thou by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;

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