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And once when we could not bear to see
Her sufferings, and turn'd the head, “ His rod and his staff they comfort me,"
The virgin martyr said. 'Twas near the setting of the sun,
And her voice wax'd faint and low,
And we knew that her race was well nigh run,
Round the ruddy sun's decline,
On the steep of Mount Aventine.
From their own sky's cloudless blue, And a triumph more glorious was thine to-day Than ever the Cæsar knew. We lay thee here in the narrow cell,
Where thy friends and brethren sleep, And we carve the palm thy lot to tell,
And we do not dare to weep; Hopefully wait we God's holy time,
That shall call us to thy rest;
Till then, we dwell in an alien clime, While thou art in Abraham's breast.
By Mrs. HEMANS.
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky, Bid the old tombs give echoes to the strain,
The banners tremble as with victory. Sing them once more, they waft my
soul away, High where no shadow of the past is thrown ; No earthly passion through th' exulting lay
Breathes mournfully one haunting undertone. All is of heaven-yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source ?
E'en while the waves of that strong harmony
Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal,
By JOHN NORRIS, born in 1657.
Ir must be done, my soul, but 'tis a strange,
When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay,
Shalt be thou knows't not what, and live thou knows't not how.
Amazing state! no wonder that we dread
To think of death or view the dead. Thou'rt all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee Our very knowledge had antipathy;
Death could not a more sad retinue findSickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.
By JAMES MONTGOMERY.
I ASK'D the Heavens ;—“ What foe to God hath done
I ask'd the Sea;-the sea in fury boil'd,
And answer'd with his voice of storms,-" "Twas MAN; My waves in panic at his crime recoil'd,
Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran.
I ask'd the Earth ;-the earth replied aghast,
To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless man, I went,
THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE.
AND whither came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise,
The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days;
From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought,
In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains wrought;
There rung the hammer's heavy stroke, among the echoing
There chased the chisel's keen sharp edge, the rude unshapen blocks.
Thence polish'd, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place,
The shores of Tyre's imperial pride, and Judah's hills of green.
With gradual toil the work went on through days and months and years,
Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen
And thus in majesty sublime, and noiseless pomp it rose,
Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply;
Of souls renew'd; their Zion there, that world of light and
Their Lebanon the place of toil,-of previous moulding this. From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews
The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth Him to choose; Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine, Moulded beneath His patient Hand in purity divine.
Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek; See floods of unaccustom'd tears gush down the harden'd cheek;
Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol fond;
Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious tender bond.
Behold he prays, whose lips were seal'd in silent scorn before;
Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door; Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past, Oh, for more mouldings of the Hand that works a change so
Ye look'd on me a well wrought stone, a saint of God matured,
What chisellings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured;
But mark'd ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it
Ere Jesus bore his servant home across the darksome wave?
Home to the place His grace design'd that chosen soul to fill;
In the bright temple of the saved upon His holy hill;
Whose stones shall never be displaced, set in redeeming love.
Lord! chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus Thine image on us stamp, transport us to the shore, Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more.
By JOHN G. WHITTIER, one of the living poets of America.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore
Blue sea of the hills!—in my spirit I hear
Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong,
Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,
There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
Lo! Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,
With the mountains around, and the valleys between;
And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw