Their hearts are bound with bands of brass
That sigh or crying cannot pass.
All treasures did the Lord impart
To Pharaoh, save a contrite heart:
All other gifts unto his foes
He freely gives, nor grudging knows;
But love's sweet smart and costly pain
A treasure to his friends remain."
By the Rev. ROBERT MONTGOMERY.
"Come unto Me, all ye that labour, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."-Matt. xi. 28.
HEAVEN of true hearts! while yet on earth they beat,
Led by pure love, if they repose on Thee,
In whose mild glories all compassions meet,
That link man's time with God's eternity,—
Scoff, dream, or reason as the sceptic may,
In Christ uncenter'd, none partake that rest
Which broods o'er all things with celestial sway,
To breathe God's halcyon through the troubled breast.
Christless and creedless might this world be found,
Orphan'd of grace, apart from truth and prayer,
Infernal midnight would the soul surround,
And doubting horrors be dread inmates there!
Here lies the secret,―man is living thirst,
A want incarnate, which no creatures fill;
And less than Infinite but leaves him cursed,-
Though rich as Croesus, yet a pauper still!
Then, glory to embodied Love! that came
Down from pure bliss, to suffer, bleed, and die—
On earth compassion, and in heaven the same,
Whose heart is echoed by the Church's sigh!
Earth's true Consoler was our weeping Lord,
Homeless Himself, to all God's home He gave ;
And when He spake, Time ne'er such accents heard
As sooth'd the sinner whom He died to save.
Creation seems a paradox of power,
Unlesss perused in Calvary's holy light, When fierce convulsions have their awful hour, And darken conscience with eclipsing night: And is not providence a gloomy maze,
A planless wild to reason's wandering thought, Till, summ'd by Revelation's teaching rays,
The soul's hereafter is to judgment brought?
Thus in the Cross of man's Almighty Priest,
The God incarnate, who redeem'd us all,
Nature and providence alike released,
Back to our souls the creed of heaven recall.
And, as on earth, dejection, want, and grief,
The babe, the mother, captive, blind and lone,— Each in the heart of Jesus found relief,
And drank the music of His mercy tone.
So, in His secrecy of splendour, now,
High o'er the heavens enshrined in glorious bliss,— Anguish to Him may lift her haggard brow, Nor prove Him scornful of a world like this. Perfect in manhood, as in Godhead pure,
Still on His throne those sympathies remain,
That taught Him once man's trial to endure,
And all the throbbings of terrestrial pain!
And none are lonesome, blighted, or unblest,
But moral suicides, who dare destroy
Creation's refuge, and the sinner's rest,
By leaving Christ for some created joy :-
Then may our lives a liturgy of love
Lord of bright worlds! for thy redemption be,
And learn below that secret from above,
That none are restless who repose on Thee.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
By ISAAC WATTS.
My God, I love and I adore!
But souls that love would know thee more.
Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand
Behind the labours of thy hand?
Thy hand, unseen, sustains the poles
On which this huge creation rolls :
The starry arch proclaims thy power,
Thy pencil glows in every flower:
In thousand shapes and colours rise
Thy painted wonders to our eyes;
While beasts and birds with labouring throats
Teach us a God in thousand notes.
The meanest pin in nature's frame
Marks out some letter of thy name.
Where sense can reach or fancy rove,
From hill to hill, from field to grove,
Across the waves, around the sky,
There's not a spot, or deep or high,
Where the Creator has not trod,
And left the footstep of a God.
But are his footsteps all that we,
Poor groveling worms must know or see?
Thou Maker of my vital frame!
Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name,
Shine to my sight, and let the ear
Which thou hast form'd the language hear.
Where is thy residence? Oh! why
Dost thou avoid my searching eye,
My longing sense? Thou Great Unknown,
Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne?
Divide, ye clouds, and let me see
The Power that gives me leave to be.
Or, art thou all diffused abroad
Through boundless space, a present God,
Unseen, unheard, yet ever near!
What shall I do to find thee here?
Is there not some mysterious art
To feel thy presence at my heart?
To hear thy whispers soft and kind,
In holy silence of the mind?
Then rest my thoughts; nor longer roam
In quest of joy, for Heaven's at home.
But, oh! thy beams of warmest love;
Sure they were made for worlds above.
How shall my soul her powers extend
Beyond where Time and Nature end,
To reach those heights, thy blest abode,
And meet thy kindest smiles, my God?
What shall I do? I wait thy call;
Pronounce the word, my life, my
Oh, for a wing to bear me far
Beyond the golden morning star!
Fain wonld I trace the immortal way
That leads to courts of endless day,
Where the Creator stands confess'd,
In his own fairest glories dress'd.
Some shining spirit help me rise,
Come, waft a stranger through the skies;
Bless'd Jesus meet me on the road,
First offspring of the Eternal God!
Thy hand shall lead a younger son,
Clothe me with vestures yet unknown,
And place me near thy Father's throne.
ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY
FROM the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome,
I beheld thee, O Sion, when render'd to Rome:
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home,
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come,
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane,
And the last fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain.
On many an eve the high spot whence I gazed,
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed;
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline
Of the rays from the monntain that shone on thy shrine.
And now on that mountain I stood on that day,
But I marked not the twilight beam melting away;
Oh! would that the lightning had glanced in its stead,
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head!
But the gods of the pagan shall never profane
The shrine where Jehovah disdained to reign;
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be,
Our worship, O Father, is only for Thee.
From JAMES MONTGOMERY'S World before the Flood WITH him his noblest sons might not compare In godlike features and majestic air; Not out of weakness rose his gradual frame, Perfect from his Creator's hand he came ; And as in form excelling, so in mind The sire of men transcended all mankind. A soul was in his eye, and in his speech A dialect of heaven, no art could reach ; For oft of old, to him the evening breeze Had borne the voice of God among the trees: Angels were wont their songs with his to blend, And talk with him as their familiar friend. But deep remorse for that mysterious crime Whose dire contagion, through elapsing time Diffused the curse of death beyond control, Had wrought such self-abasement in his soul, That he, whose honours were approach'd by none, Was yet the meekest man beneath the sun. From sin, as from the serpent that betray'd Eve's early innocence, he shrunk afraid; Vice he rebuked with so austere a frown, He seem'd to bring an instant judgment down; Yet while he chid, compunction's tears would start, And yearning tenderness dissolve his heart; The guilt of all his race became his own, He suffer'd as if HE had sinn'd alone. Within the glen to filial love endear'd, Abroad for wisdom, truth, and justice fear'd, He walk'd so humbly in the sight of all, The vilest ne'er reproach'd him with his fall. Children were his delight!-they ran to meet His soothing hand, and clasp'd his honour'd feet; While, midst their fearless sports supremely blest, He grew in heart a child among the rest:
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