Obrazy na stronie
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Thou that saidst, "Awake, arise!"
E'en when death had quenched the eyes,
In this hour of grief's deep sighing,
When o'erwearied hope is dying!
Hear and aid!

Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine,
Savior! whether Death's or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid!

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

BLESSINGS, O Father, shower!

Father of mercies! round his precious head! On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray Thee not

For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power;-oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at thy will!
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!

Let such a sense of Thee,

Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienably be,

That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mein

May sit undinmed! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams,
Remembered faintly, gleams,

Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with Thee,

Made by Thy spirit free;

And when thou callest him from his mortal place
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Savior's face!

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

Your tents are desolate: your stately steps,
Of all their choral dances, have not left
One trace beside the fountains; your full cup
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike
Is broken: yet amidst undying things,

The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still
All the fresh glories of the early world
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls
Never to change!

INVOCATION.

As the tired voyager on stormy seas

Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, To waft him tidings with the gentler breeze,

Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar; So from the depths of days, when earth yet wore Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,

I call you gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew

Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes,

Imperial in their visionary fire;

Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time,

When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!

INVOCATION CONTINUED.

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Btreaming through all your spiritual mien,

As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,

Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued

A haughty dreams of power had winged their flight, Ant left hign place for martyr fortitude,

True faith, long suffering love. Come to me, come!
And as the seas beneath your master's tread
Fell into crystal smoothness round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep

THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

A song for Israel's God! Spear, crest, and helm,
Lay by the billows of the old Red sea,
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee;

With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee

Of the dark waters tossing o'er the slain.
A song for God's own victory! O, thy lays,
Bright Poesy! were holy in their birth:-
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling bitter founts-return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!

RUTH.

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fanned,
Still brings me back mine image-Oh! forlorn,
Yet not forsaken, Ruth! I see thee stand
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band-
Lone as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam,

Fallen in its weariness. Thy father-land
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,

That finest, purest, which can recognise Home in affection's glance for ever true Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes

Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone, "Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

"And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them, by day, nor the beasts of the field by night."-2 Sam. xxi. 10.

WHO watches on the mountain with the dead,
Alone before the awfulness of night ?—
A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread?
No, a lorn woman! On her drooping head,

Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain:
She recks not-living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vultures from their bed.
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept;
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!-
E'en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
The unconquerable Angel, mightiest Love!

THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMMITE WOMAN. "And she answered, I dwell among mine own people "–2 King" iv. 13.

"I dwell among mine own."-Oh! happy thou' Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,

Nor for the olives on the mountain's brow;

Nor the flocks wondering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters-not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,

Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine-
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,

Weaving from each some link for home's dear char
ties.

THE ANNUNCIATION.

Lowliest of women, and most glorified!

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,

A brightness round thee grew-and by thy side
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
A stately prophetess of victory

From her proud lyre nad struck a tempest's tone, For such high tidings as to thee were brought,

Chosen of Heaven! that hour :-but thou, O thou! E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, And take to thy meek breast the all holy word, And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

Yet as a sun-burst flushing mountain snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lightened into song.
Unconsciously perchance, yet free and strong
Flowed the majestic joy of tuneful words, .

Which living hearts the choirs of Heaven among
Might well have linked with their divinest chords,
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music passed,
No more to memory than a reed's faint sight;
While thine, O childlike virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET. There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,

That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train, Moving to pleasure's airy melodies,

Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.

But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn,

When thy heart's core had quivered to the pain Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn; When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odors forth On the Redeemer's feet with many a sigh, And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth Than all those costly balms of Araby; Then was their joy, a song of joy in Heaven, For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!*

MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

Oh! blest beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat
Where thy hushed spirit drew celestial birth?
Mary! meek listener at the Savior's feet?
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,

But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,

Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying! Thou whose calm soul was like a well-spring lying So deep and still in its transparent rest, That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS.

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!

Was in your bosoms-thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the blest Deliverer's feet,
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy wo could move,
An. which to Him, the All-Seeing and All-Just,
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given

To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrong spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.

THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

"Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preach ed in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hab done, be told for a memorial of her."-Matthew xxvi. 13. See 86 John xii. 3.

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where'er, beneath some Oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests-where'er the child
Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known-where'er the Book of Light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,

Is borne thy memory, and all praise above;
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame ?

One lowly offering of exceeding love!

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast,
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Savior's eye,
E'en till away the heavenly spirit passed,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.

O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour,
Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower

Is all of love and suffering from her birth;

Still hath your act a voice-through fear, through strife Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,

To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,

When that high voice which burial rocks had riven.
Thrilled with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion's royal blast declare

Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear,
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bowed
By strong affection's anguish !-one low word-
"Mary!"-and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus revealed! and thou, that so hadst erred,
So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own,

Nobler than e'er the still small voice assigned

To lips in awful music making known

The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind. "Christ is arisen!" by thee to wake mankind, First from the sepulchre those words were brought! Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind

First on its way, with those high tidings fraught— "Christ has arisen!" Thou, thou, the sin enthralled. Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransomed one, wert cal ed In human hearts to give that rapture birth; Ob! raised from shame to brightness !-there doth lie The tenderest meaning of His ministry,

Whose undespairing love still owned the spirit's worth

HYMNS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL,

THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain,

That old victorious tone of prophet-years, A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, And all the hovering shadows of the brain?

Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul:-Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign ?—
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung

A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung-
Feeling and Thought!-till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words!

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine
Cling reverently! of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,

Each day were bent :-her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh-discovered nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest :-yet would the solemn Word
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be
A seed not lost;-for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

From an old Italian Picture.

Under a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,
Lulled on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,

Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread work of Egypt's buried kings
Temple and pyramid beyond him rise,

Regal and still as everlasting things!

Vain pomps! from Him, with that pure flowery cheek, Soft shadowed by his mother's drooping head,

A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread! And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, Before the suffering and the lowly, down.

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing,
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake and prophecy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.

And thus it was! a diadem of thorn

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers, To Him who poured forth blessings in soft showers, C'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!

And we repine, for whom that cup He took

Per blooms that mocked our hope, o'er idols that forsook!

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.
An Ecce Homo, by Leonardo da Vinci.

Ict that image on a mirthful day

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Of youth, and sinking with stilled surprise, The pride of life before tho holy eyes, In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, Abashed to mute confessions of a sway, Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings, Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings, Have struck forth tones which then awakened lay; Now, that around the deep life of my mind, Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, Oft does the pale bright vision still float by; But more divinely sweet, and speaking now Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUZ BLEST.

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallowed from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light,
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic in the might,

The conscious glory of the Savior's love!
And honored be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! let reverential care
Watch to behold the mortal spirit wake,

And shield its first bloom from unholy air; Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign Of claims upon a heritage divine.

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

"He went up to a mountain apart to pray."

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude

Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,

Though that I prayed not; but deep thoughts have pressed

Into my being since it breathed that air,

Nor could I now one moment live the guest

Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise Like them in pure communion with the skies, Vast, silent, open unto night and day;

So might the o'erburdened Son of man have felt, When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.

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"Consider the lilies of the fields."

Flowers! when the Savior's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty-when from you
That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal as the sky-
Then, in the bosom of your purity,

A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by
Unwarned of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day care is drowned,
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hushed hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced !

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

"And behold the birds of the air.”

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers with the wings of spring!
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!

And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true

E'en than the first, within the awakened mind; While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife, But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resigned.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. "And he that was dead sat up and began to speak." He that was dead rose up and spoke-He spoke! Was it of that majestic world unknown? Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke, Came they with revelation in each tone?

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.

Were the far cities of the nations gone,

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The palm-the vine-the cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the laurel bower
Watts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale olive!-in thy branches lie

Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear thee sigh To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green, Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene When, in the garden, the Redeemer prayed

When pale stars looked upon his fainting head, And angels, ministering in silent dread, Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon :-the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth :-and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross the enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Savior! O Atoner! thou that fain

Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,

Chased thence by guilt!-Oh! turn not thou away, The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

"God is a spirit."

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration: founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:-to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest

With dearer consecration those pure fanes, Which, severed from all sound of earth's unrest, Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains Rise heavenward. Ne'er may rock or cave possess Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seemed, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all the ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toiled, watched, struggled to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,

Reigned there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the unteinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,

Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms !—yet not alone.
For memories lulling to the heart as these,

I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer! But for their sakes whe unto thee repair

From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer, Words to sustain earth's toiling children bear, Within thy lowly walls for evermore !

LOUISE SCHEPLER.

Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for Dell perusal after his decease, affectionately commemorates he onwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the moun tain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances f difficulty and danger.

A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow

Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light, Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,

Reddened thy steep wild way; the starry night Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses, well, Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright Oft in mid-storin; oh! not with beauty's eye,

Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!

Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning

To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice,
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice

TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balins of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine,
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,

Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,

For this were all thy journeyings, and the close
Of that long path, Heaven's own bright sabbath-rest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Savior's breast.

LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SCULL

CREATURE of air and light!

Emblem of that which will not fade or die!

Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay,
With silence and decay,

Fixed on the wreck of cold mortality?

The thoughts, once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone;— Will the dust tell thee where

That which hath burst the prison-house is flown?
Rise, nursling of the day!

If thou wouldst trace its way—
Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanished bird,

Near the deserted nest and broken shell ?
Far thence, by us unheard,

He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell;
Thou of the sunshine born,
Take the bright wings of morn!
Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruined cell.

CHURCH MUSIC.

"All the train

Sang Hallelujah as the sound of seas."-Milton.

AGAIN! oh, send those anthem notes again!
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky!
3id the old tombs give echoes to the strain,
The banners tremble, as with victory!

ing them once more!-they waft my soul away, High where no shadow of the past is thrown; To earthly passion through the exulting lay,

Breathes mournfully one haunting under tone. All is of Heaven !-yet wherefore to mine eye, Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source, en while the waves of that strong harmony, Sweep with my spirit on their sounding course? Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal,

Thus by the signs betokening sorrow's power? --Oh! is it not that humbly we may feel

Our nature's limits in its proudest hour!

THOUGHTS FROM AN ITALIAN POET. WHERE shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes, and farewells, a friend Chat will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender, and firm, and faithful to the end? Far hath my spirit sought a place of restLong on vain idols its devotion shed; Some have forsaken whom I loved the best,

And some deceived, and some are with the dead. But thou, my Savior! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart, Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, the Unchanging One, my heart.

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.
'Twas early day, and sunlight streamed
Soft through a quiet room,
That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed,
Still, but with naught of gloom.

For there, serene in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,

A father communed with the page
Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his gray holy hair,

And touched the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!

But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far,

A radiance all the spirit's own,

Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm, benignant eye,

Some ancient promise, breathing yet

Of Immortality:

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives:

For every feature said "I know

That my Redeemer lives!"

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts 'ersweeping death.
Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt!

HYMN BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER.

FATHER! that in the olive shade

When the dark hour came on, Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, Strengthen thy Son;

Oh! by the anguish of that night,
Send us down blest relief;
Or to the chastened, let thy might
Hallow this grief;

And Thou, that when the starry sky
Saw the dead strife begun,
Didst teach adoring faith to cry,

"Thy will be done!"

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all
That e'er have mourned the chief-
Thou Savior! if the stroke must fall,
Hallow this grief!

A DIRGE.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit! rest thee now!
E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His soul was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;

But oh a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own.

THE PENITENT'S OFFERING.
ST. LUKE vii. 37, 38.

THOU that with pallid cheek,

And eyes in sadness meek,

And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, From their long wanderings won,

Before the all-healing Son,

Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found!

When thou wouldst bathe his feet,
With odors richly sweet,

And many a shower of woman's burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear

From the crowded beauty of its festal year.

Did he reject thee then,

While the sharp scorn of men

On thy once bright and stately head was cast? No, from the Savior's mien,

A solemn light serene,

Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.

For thee, their smiles no more
Familiar faces wore,

Voices, once kind, had learned the stranger's tone,
Who raised thee up and bound

Thy silent spirit's wound?

He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!

But which, oh, erring child!
From home so long beguiled,

Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven
That o'er the bruised reed,

Condemned of earth to bleed,

In music passed, “Thy sins are all forgiven ?”

Was it that perfume fraught
With balm and incense, brought

From the sweet woods of Araby the blest?
Or that fast flowing rain

Of tears, which not in vain

To Him who scorned not tears, thy woes confessed!

No, not by these restored
Unto thy Father's board,

Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made;
But costlier in his eyes,

By that blest sacrifice,

Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before him 'aid.

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