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AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In first obedience, and their state of good.
Oh! may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!
THE DAY OF REST.
This appeared in a recent number of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. It is well entitled to a place here.
REST, rest! it is the Day of Rest-there needs no book to
The truth that every thoughtful eye, each heart can read so
Rest, rest! it is the Sabbath morn, a quiet fills the air, Whose whisper'd voice of peace repeats that rest is everywhere.
O weary heart! O heart of wo! raise up thy toil-worn
The fields, the trees, the very breeze-they all are resting
The air is still, there is no sound, save that unceasing hum, That insect song of summer-time that from the woods doth
And even that seems fainter now, like voices far away,
As though they only sang of rest, and labour'd not to-day; The hum of bees seems softer, too, from out the clear blue heaven,
As if the lowliest creatures knew this day for rest was given.
The spacious tracts of meadow-land, of bean-fields, and of
And all the glebe, are undisturb'd by sound of Labour's
The cotter in his Sunday garb, with peace within his breast, Roams idly by the garden-side, and feels himself at rest.
The streams, the trees, the woods, the breeze, the bird, and roving bee,
Seem all to breathe a softer sound, a holier melody;
Yon little church, too, tells of rest, to all the summer air, For the bell long since has ceased to peal that call'd to praise and prayer.
But while I stand mid these tall elms, a sound comes creeping near,
That falls like music heard in dreams upon my charmed ear; Like music heard in dreams of heaven, that sacred sound
From where the old church aisles repeat the organ's solemn peal.
Now Heaven be praised! a gracious boon is this sweet rest
How many shall this truth repeat to-day on bended knee! How many a weary heart it cheers, how many an aching
Now Heaven be praised, a gracious boon is this sweet Day of Rest!
RELIGION OF FLOWERS.
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown!
These are Thy wonders, Lord of power!
Oh, that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither! Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither: Nor doth my flower want a spring shower;
My sins and I joining together.
But, while I grow in a straight line
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline.
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone Where all things burn, when thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in
These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
Which when we once can find and prove,
Who would be more, swelling through store,
ST. JAMES'S DAY.
From KEBLE's Christian Year. “ Ye shall drink indeed of My cup, and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with: but to sit on My right hand, and on My left, is not Mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of My Father.”—St. Matthew xx. 23.
Sit down and take thy fill of joy
At God's right hand, a bidden guest,
Eat of the bread that cannot waste.
Thou readest all thy Saviour meant,
In sweet reproof on thee was bent.
“Seek ye to sit enthroned by Me?
Alas! know not what ye ask,
The lowest in the meanest task-
that I in tears must steep,
That o'er Me roll so dark and deep?"
In glory and in agony,
Only be Thou for ever nigh.
And of my woes baptismal taste :
For those next me in glory placed,
"I give it not by partial love;
But in my Father's book are writ
Thou Lord of meekness, write it there,
If ever on the mount with Thee
Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight :
Lead me from Tabor's sunbright steep,
Let me not grudge a few short
With Thee toward Heaven to walk and weep:
Too happy, on my silent path,
If now and then allow'd, with Thee
Thy secret work of love to see;
ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.
LOST! lost! lost!
A gem of countless price,
Lost-where the thoughtless throng