Prayer.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Unuttered or expressed;

The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen 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.

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.

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85

Lever Give Up.

BY M. F. TUPPER.

NEVER give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical Care:
Never give up! or the burthen may sink you,—
Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
And in all trials and troubles, bethink you

The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up! there are chances and changes Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,

And through the chaos, High Wisdom arranges
Ever success, if you'll only hope on:
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of Never give up!

Never give up!—though the grape-shot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,

Stand like a rock,-and the storm or the battle Little shall harm you, though doing their worst; Never give up!—if adversity presses,

Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel, in all your distresses, Is the stout watchword of Never give up!

A Name.

BY L. H. SIGOURNEY.

MAKE to thyself a náme,

Not with a breath of clay,
Which, like the broken, hollow reed,
Doth sigh itself away;
Not with the fame that vaunts

The tyrant on his throne,
And hurls its stigma on the soul
That God vouchsafes to own.

Make to thyself a name,—

Not such as wealth can weave,

88

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

Whose warp is but a thread of gold,

That dazzles to deceive;

Nor with the tints of love

Form out its letters fair,

That scroll within thy hand shall fade
Like him who placed it there.

Make to thyself a name,

Not in the sculptured aisle:
The marble oft betrays its trust,
Like Egypt's lofty pile;
But ask of Him who quelled-
Of Death the victor-strife,
To write it on the blood-bought page
Of everlasting life.

The Old Arm Chair.

BY E. COOK.

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me, for loving that old arm chair?