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And many a bud and bell,
Unnumber'd yet and fair,
Nurtured and tended well,
Hath the Good Gardener there;
How hard were it to choose
Among their bright array,
The happy flower-souls gay,
In their sun-colour'd hues.
And yet if choice were made,
Oh Lily! thou wert mine,
Pure as a spirit's shade,
Thy radiant petals shine,
Thy gaze so meekly fair,
İs ever fix'd above,
As if in yearning love,
It sought for kindred there!
O, Thou! the Garden's light,
Through whom its blooms endure!
Make me unto Thy sight,
Make me so white and pure
Then may I joyful rise
Where reigneth purity,
And with the Just and Thee
Bloom ever in the skies!
An admirable paraphrase of MOORE's well known poem, by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
SWEET Sunday Bells, your placid sound
Enhances that repose profound
Which bathes the golden fields around,
And far-off mountains, sunshine-crown'd.
Amid the cluster'd roofs outswells,
And wanders to the upland dells,
And near and far its message tells,
Your holy voice, sweet Sunday Bells.
Sweet Sunday Bells, ye summon round
The youthful and the hoary-crown'd,
To one observance gravely bound;
Where comfort, strength, and joy are found.
And many a tale your burden tells
Of marriage-chimes and funeral knells:
Commixing memory's tender spells
With loftier power,-sweet Sunday Bells.
Sweet Sunday Bells, your pleading sound
At times in natural tears hath drown'd
The eyes of one, whom pew nor mound
May harbour in the hallow'd ground:
Whose heart to your old music swells ;
Whose soul a deeper thought impels ;
Who like an alien sadly dwells
your chime-sweet Sunday Bells.
A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER.
The following simple and beautiful lines were composed by the great poet S. T. COLERIDGE, for the use of his daughter when a child. A very little ingenuity will be sufficient to make such alterations as may be necessary to suit the prayer to the circumstances of every fireside.
ERE on my bed my limbs I lay,
God grant me grace my prayers
O God! preserve my mother dear
In strength and health for many a year;
And, O preserve my father too,
And may I pay him reverence due,
And may I my best thoughts employ
To be my parents' hope and joy;
And O! preserve my brothers both
From evil doings and from sloth,
And may we always love each other,
Our friends, our father, and our mother;
And still, O Lord, to me impart
An innocent and grateful heart,
That after my last sleep I may
Awake to Thy eternal day!
THE HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.
By Sir WALTER SCOTT.
WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved,
Out from the land of bondage came,
Her father's God before her moved,
An awful guide in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish'd lands,
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow..
There rose the choral hymn of praise,
And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Sion's daughters pour'd their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone:
Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.
But, present still, though now unseen;
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh! when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!
Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn.
But Thou hast said, the blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.
PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd or unexpress'd;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,
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;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod-
Lord, teach us how to pray.
By the Rev. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.
ALL night the lonely suppliant pray'd,
All night his earnest crying made,
Till, standing by his side, at morn,
The Tempter said, in bitter scorn,
"Oh, peace! what profit do you gain
From empty words and babblings vain?
'Come, Lord--oh come!' you cry alway;
You pour your heart out night and day;
Yet still no murmur of reply,-
No voice that answers, 'Here am I.'"
Then sank the stricken heart in dust,
That word had wither'd all its trust;
No strength retain'd it now to pray,
While Faith and Hope had fled away;
And ill that mourner now had fared,
Thus by the Tempter's art ensnared,
But that at length beside his bed
His sorrowing angel stood, and said,—
"Doth it repent thee of thy love,
That never now is heard above
Thy prayer, that now not any more
It knocks at heaven's gate as before?"
"I am cast out-I find no place, No hearing at the throne of grace. 'Come, Lord-oh come!' I cry alway, I pour my heart out night and day, have won Yet never, until now, The answer- Here am I, my son.'"
"Oh, dull of heart! enclosed doth lie
In each 'Come, Lord!' an 'Here am I.'
Thy love, thy longing are not thine-
Reflections of a love divine:
The very prayer to thee was given,
Itself a messenger from heaven.
Whom God rejects, they are not so;
Strong bands are round them in their woe;