When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer:

Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spuit, though-he is not there!

Not there!-Where, then, is he?
The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe locked;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past,
He lives; nor, to the last,

Of seeing him again will I despair;

In dreams I see him now;
And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER, thy chastening rod

o help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit-land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

Iwill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

WEEP NOT FOR HER!

WEEP not for her! Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright, Like flowers that know not what it is to die,

Like long linked shadeless months of polar light,
Like music floating o'er a waveless lake,
While echo answers from the flowery brake,
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues,
When human bosoms seemed the homes of truth,
And earth still gleamed with beauty's radiant dews.
Her summer prime waned not to days that freeze,
Her wine of life was not run to the lees:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! By fleet or slow decay
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmate of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, and her hopes grow dark.
Translated by her God with spirit shriven,

She passed, as 'twere on smiles, from earth to heaven:
Weep not for her!

Weep wt for her! It was not hers to feel

The miseries that corrode amassing years,
"rainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,
To wander sad down age's vale of tears,
As whirl the withered leaves from friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry wold alone to be:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! She is an angel now,

And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise,
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,

Sin, sorrow, suffering, banished from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appears
The vistaed joys of heaven's eternal years:
Wer not for her!

Weep not for her! Her memory is the shrine

Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline,

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers,
Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light,
Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

Weep not for her! There is no cause of wo,
But rather nerve the spirit that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny path below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back. So, when a few fleet swerving years have flown, She'll meet thee at heaven's gate-and lead thee in Weep not for her!

D. M. MOIR.

HYMN TO THE UNIVERSE.

ROLL on, thou Sun, for ever roll,

Thou giant, rushing through the heaven, Creation's wonder, nature's soul; Thy golden wheels by angels driven; The planets die without thy blaze, And cherubim with star-dropt wing Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, Thou brightest emblem of their King! Roll, lovely Earth! and still roll on, With ocean's azure beauty bound; While one sweet star, the pearly Moon, Pursues thee through the blue profound; And angels with delighted eyes

Behold thy teints of mount and stream, From the high walls of paradise; Swift-wheeling like a glorious dream.

Roll, Planets! on your dazzling road, For ever sweeping round the sun; What eye beheld when first ye glowed? What eye shall see your courses done? Roll in your solemn majesty,

Ye deathless splendors of the skies! High altars, from which angels see The incense of creation rise.

Roll, Comets! and ye million Stars!

Ye that through boundless nature roam;
Ye monarchs on your flame-winged cars;
Tell us in what more glorious dome-
What orb to which your pomps are dim,
What kingdom but by angels trod-

Tell us, where swells the eternal hymn
Around His throne-where dwells your God!
Paraphrased from GOETHE

TYRE.

HIGH on the stately wall

The spear of Anrad hung,
Through corridor and hall

Gemadin's war-note rung.

Where are they now? the note is o'er;
Yes! for a thousand years and more

Five fathoms deep beneath the sea
Those halls have lain all silently;
Naught listing save the mermaid's song,

While rude sea-monsters roam the corridors along.

Far from the wondering East

Tubal and Javan came,

And Araby the blest,

And Kedar, mighty name-
Now on that shore, a lonely guest,
Some dripping fisherman may rest,
Watching on rock or naked stone
His dark net spread before the sun,
Unconscious of the dooming lav

That broods o'er that dull spot, and there shall brood for

A POET'S PRAYER.
O GOD! it is an awful thing indeed

For one who estimates our nature well,
Be what it may his outward sect, or creed,
To name thee, thou incomprehensible!
Hadst thou not chosen of thyself to tell,
As in thy gospel thou hast done; nor less,
By condescending in our hearts to dwell;

Could man have ever found to thee access,
Or worshipped thee aright in spiritual holiness?

No! for the utmost that we could have done,

Were to have raised, as Paul at Athens saw Altars unto the dread and unknown One,

Bending before we knew not what with awe,
And even now, instructed by a law

Holier than that of Moses, what know we
Of thee, the Highest? Yet thou bidst us draw
Near thee in spirit; O then pardon me
If, in this closing strain, I crave a boon of thee.

It shall be this: Permit me not to place

My soul's affections on the things of earth; But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace, To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth To gratitude proportioned to their worth:

Teach me to feel that all that thou hast made Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth,

Though meant with filial love to be surveyed,
Is nothing to thyself-the shadow of a shade.

If thou hast given me, more than unto some,
A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair,
Which sometimes renders admiration dumb,

From consciousness that words can not declare
The beauty thou hast scattered everywhere;

O grant that this may lead me still, through all Thy works, to thee! nor prove a treach'rous snare Adapted those affections to enthrall

Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call.

I would not merely dream my life away
In fancied rapture, or imagined joy;
Nor that a perfumed flower, a dew-gemmed spray,
A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy,
Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ;
So far alone as nature's charms can lead

To thee who framed them all, and can destroy,
Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed,

Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read.

But while from one extreme thy power may keep
My erring frailty, O preserve me still

From dullness! nor let cold indifference steep
My senses in oblivion: if the thril!

Of early bliss must sober, as it will,

And should, when earthly things to heavenly yield,

I would have feelings left time can not chill;

That while I yet can walk through grove or field,

I may be conscious there of charms by hee revealed.

And when I shall, as soon or late I must,

Become infirm; in age, if I grow old;

Or, sooner, if my strength should fail its trust;
When I relinquish haunts where I have strolled

At morn or eve, and can no more behold

Thy glorious works: forbid me to repine;

Let memory still their loveliness unfold
Before my mortal eye, and let them shine

With borrowed light from thee, for they are thine!
BERNARD Barton.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

WHAT is that, mother?

The Lark, my child.

The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The Dove, my son.

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For the distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou, like the dove-

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The Eagle, boy-
Proudly careering his course of joy,

Firm in his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line

What is that, mother?

The Swan, my love.He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nestling nigh; He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, it unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my son, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. BISHOP DONN

THE MISSIONARY.

My heart goes with thee, dauntless man,
Freely as thou dost hie

To sojourn with some barbarous clan,
For them to toil or die.
Fondly our spirits to our own

Cling, nor to part allow;

Thine to some land forlorn has flownWe turn-and where art thou?

Thou climbst the vessel's lofty side,
Numbers are gathering there;

The youthful warrior in his pride,
The merchant in his care;

Hearts which for knowledge track the seas,
Spirits which lightly move

Glad as the billows and the breeze

And thou-the child of love.

A savage shore receives thy tread;
Companion thou hast none;
The wild boughs wave above thy head,
Yet still thou journeyest on;
Thridding the tangled wild-wood drear,
Piercing the mountain glen,
Till, wearily, thou drawest near
The haunts of lonely men.

Strange is thy aspect to their eyes,
Strange is thy foreign speech;
And wild and strong is their surprise
At marvels thou dost teach.

Thy strength alone is in thy words;
Yet armies could not bow

The spirit of those barbarous hordes
So readily as thou.

But oh! thy heart, thou home-sick man,
With saddest thoughts runs o'er,
Sitting, as fades the evening wan,

Silently at thy door.

Yet that poor hut upon the wild,

A stone beneath the tree,

And souls to heaven's love reconciledThese are enough for thee.

WILLIAM HOWITE

A PREPARATIVE TO PRAYER.

7HEN thou dost talk to God-by prayer I meanLift up pure hands, lay down all lust's desires; "x thoughts on heaven, present a conscience clean; Such holy blame to mercy's throne aspires. Confess faults, guilt, crave pardon for thy sin, Tread holy paths, call grace to guide therein. It is the spirit with reverence must obey

Our Maker's will, to practise what he taught; Make not the flesh thy counsel when thou pray; 'Tis enemy to every virtuous thought;

It is the foe we daily feed and clothe;
It is the prison that the soul doth loath.
Even as Elias mounting to the sky,

Did cast his mantle to the earth behind;
So when the heart presents the prayer on high,
Exclude the world from traffic with the mind;
Lips near to God, and ranging heart within,
Is but vain babbling, and converts to sin.
Like Abraham ascending up the hill

To sacrifice, his servants left below,

That he might act the Great Commander's will,
Without impeach to his obedient blow;
Even so the soul remote from earthly things,
Should mount salvation's shelter-mercy's wings.
SOUTHWELL.

CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION TO THE POOR.
THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken
She is a widow; she is old and poor;

Her only hope is in that sacred token

Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Skeptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night?

She ives in her affections; for the grave

Has closed upon her husband, children; all He hopes are with the arm she trusts will save

Her treasured jewels; though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high to fall

And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, can not pall

Her unperverted palate, but will bring
A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.
Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er
With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,

The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers-so softly pour
The breathings of her bosom, when she prays,
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more
She muses on the griefs of former days;

Her full heart melts, and flows in heaven's dissolving rays.

And faith can see a new world, and the eyes

Of saints look pity on her; Death will come

A few short moments over, and the prize

Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom

Is scattered. What a meeting there will be
To her and all she loved here! and the bloom
Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee;
Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.
PERCIVAL

HYMN OF NATURE.

GOD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie;
The mountains rise like holy towers,
Where man might commune with the sky;

The tall cliff challenges the storm
That lowers upon the vale below,

Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands
Then the white sails are dashed in foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
1 he grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to Thee.
But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form,
To wave on high their plumes of grace,
And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!
When summer breezes sweetly flow,
Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and angry tempests blow.
All-from the evening's plaintive sigh,

That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cyBreathe forth the language of thy power. God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs,
The tented dome of heavenly blue,

Suspended on the rainbow's wings.
Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free,
In evening's purple radiance gives
The beauty of its praise to Thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
"Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And Nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay,

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

PEABODY.

MORTALITY OF MAN. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossoms on the tree, Or like the dainty flower of May, Or like the morning to the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had, E'en such is man ;-whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done.The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes-and man he dies! Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan, E'en such is man ;-who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death.The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew's ascended, The hour is short, the span not long, The swan's near death,-man's life is done! WASTELL

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?

THY neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,
Whom hunger sends from door to door;
Go thou, and succor him.

Thy neighbor? "Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain;—
Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem,

Widow and orphan, helpless left;—
Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave;-
Go thou and ransom him.

Where'er thou meetest a human form
Less favored than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem

The breaking heart from misery-
Go, share thy lot with him.

ANONYMOUS.

PAUL AND SILAS AT PHILIPPI.
HEAREST thou that solemn symphony, that swells
And echoes through Philippi's gloomy cells?
From vault to vault the heavy notes rebound,
And granite rocks reverberate the sound.
The wretch, who long in dungeons cold and dank
Had shook his fetters, that their iron clank
Might break the grave-like silence of that prison,
On which the star of hope had never risen;
Then sunk in slumbers, by despair oppressed,
And dreamed of freedom in his broken rest;
Wakes at the music of these mellow strains,
Thinks it some spirit, and forgets his chains.
'Tis Paul and Silas; who, at midnight pay
To Him of Nazareth a grateful lay.
Soon is that anthem wafted to the skies;
An angel bears it, and a God replies.
At that reply, a pale portentous light

Plays through the air,-then leaves a gloomier night.
The darkly tottering towers,-the trembling arch,-
The rocking walls confess an earthquake's march,-
The stars look dimly through the roof:-behold,
From saffron dews and melting clouds of gold,
Brightly uncurling on the dungeon's air,
Freedom walks forth serene; from her loose hair,
And every glistening feather of her wings,

Perfumes that breathe of more than earth she flings,
And with a touch dissolves the prisoner's chains,
Whose song had charmed her from celestial plains.

MISSIONS.

LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador!

PIERPONT.

Light for the hills of Greece!

Light for that trampled clime, Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease Ere it wrecked the boast of time; If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace, Can you grudge your boon sublime.

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol-train.
The flame of the Suttee is dire and red,
And the Fakir faints with pain;
And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges laved in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armor when death invades ;

Hark! Hark!-'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh
From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales!

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails With sighs of agony;

And her kidnapped babes the mother wails 'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exiled from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roam from place to place
Benighted and oppressed;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base:
Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darkened earth!

Ye blessed, its beams who shed,
Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,
Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread,
Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,
Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,
And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,
For the aged to rest his weary head,

THE PILGRIM'S SONG.

SIGOURNEY

AND wilt Thou hear the fevered heart
To Thee in silence cry?

And as the inconstant wildfires dart

Out of the restless eye,

Wilt Thou forgive the wayward thought,
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Savior's right, so dearly bought,
That Hope should never die ?

Thou wilt; for many a languid prayer
Has reached Thee from the wild,
Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
Cast down her fainting child,
Then stole apart to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel form was nigh
To show soft waters gushing by
And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God,
And Thine unwearied arm
Is ready yet with Moses' rod,

The hidden rill to charm

Out of the dry unfathomed deep
Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,
Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine-
Thine too the drearier hour
When o'er the horizon's silent line
Fond hopeless fancies cower,
And on the traveller's listless way
Rises and sets the unchanging day,
No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,
On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,

To turn the bitter pool

Into a bright and breezy lake,

The throbbing brow to cool; Till left awhile with thee alone

The wilful heart be fain to own

That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away
Upon the breeze is flung;
The desert pelican to-day

Securely leaves her young
Reproving thankless man, who fears
To journey on a few lone years,
Where on the sand thy step appears,
Thy crown in sight is hung.

Thou, who didst sit on Jacob's well
The weary hour of noon,
The languid pulses Thou canst tell,
The nerveless spirit tune.

Thou from whose cross in anguish burst
The cry that owned thy dying thirst,
To thee we turn, our last and first,

Our Sun and soothing Moon.

From darkness here, and weariness,
We ask not full repose,

Only be Thou at hand to bless

Our trial hour of woes;

Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid
By the clear rill and palmy shade?

And see we not, up earth's dark glade,
The gate of heaven unclose?

EXCELLENCY OF CHRIST.

He is a path, if any be misled;
He is a robe, if any naked be;

If any chance to hunger, he is bread;

If any be a bondma.. he is free;

If any be but weak, how strong is he!

KEBLE.

To dead men life he is, to sick men health; To blind men sight, and to the needy wealthA pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth. GILES FLETCHER.

DISTANT CHURCH BELLS.

UP steeps reclining in the autumnal calm,
The woodland nook retired, and quiet field,
Upon the tranquil noon

The Sunday chime is borne;

Rising and sinking on the silent air,
With many a dying fall most musical,
And fitful bird hard by,
Blending harmoniously.

The sky is looking on the sunny earth,
The fleecy clouds stand still in heaven,
Making the blue expanse

More still and beautiful.

If aught there be upon this rude, bad earth, Which angels, from their happy spheres above, Could lean and listen to,

It were those peaceful sounds.
There is unearthly balm upon the air,

And holier lights which are with Sunday born,
That man may lay aside
Himself, and be at rest.

The week-day cares like shackles from us fall,
As from our Lord the clothings of the grave,
And we, too, seem with him

To walk in endless morn.

Not that these musical wings would bear us up
On buoyant thoughts too high for sinful man,
But that they speak the best
Which earth hath left to give-

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,
E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

WILSON