RESIGNATION. We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; HERE is no flock, however watched and By silence sanctifying, not concealing, tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying; And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions But oftentimes celestial benedictions We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no death! What seems so is transition; Is but a suburb of the life elysian, She is not dead-the child of our affection— Where she no longer needs our poor protection, In that great cloister's stillness aud seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her; In our embraces we again enfold her, But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times, impetuous with emotion The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean The grief that must have way. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers, Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers. The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones, Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, Sings now an everlasting song, Around the tree of life. Where'er He sees a smile too bright, To dwell in paradise. Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them the same- And ever near us, though unseen, Is life-there are no dead. W LORD LYTTON. THE SABBATH MORNING. TH silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill; And echo answers softer from the hill; And sweeter sings the linnet from the thorn: The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by in airy drove; The sun placid yellow lustre throws; The gales that lately sighed along the grove Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move— So smiled the day when the first morn arose ! JOHN LEYDEN. THE DROWNING SINGER. 'HE Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest. But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there; A fierce spirit moved above them-the wild spirit of the air And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they thundered, groaned and boomed, And alas for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed! Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales, When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained her eyes, And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the beach, Oh! for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach! Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender hearts grew cold with dread, And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock shore sped. "She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down! God have mercy! Is heaven far to seek for those who drown?" Lo! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea, Only one last clinging figure on the spar was seen to be. Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck, tossed by the wave, And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could save. "Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet. Shout away!" 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say. Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no! There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour of woe; So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?" And "Aye, aye, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters loud and clear. Then they listened. He is singing, "Jesus lover of my soul!" And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll;" Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, of life is past," Singing bravely from the waters, soul at last!" "Till the storm Oh, receive my a MARIANNE FARNINGHAM. ABIDE WITH ME. BIDE with me! Fast falls the eventide, Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; O Thou, who changest not, abide with me! I need Thy presence every passing hour; I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless ; Hold thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows And we feel and know that we can go Wherever He leads the way. Ay, God of night, my darling! Of the night of death so grim; And the gate that from life leads out, good wife Is the gate that leads to Him. REMBRANDT Peale, NOW AND AFTERWARDS. And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling: And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O come back to me !" Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "O, blest be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering to thee. "And while they are keeping Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! They'd watch o'er thy father! For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, Nearer the bound of life, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering to thee." SAMUEL LOVER. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. HEN Israel, of the Lord beloved. Out from the land of bondage came, An awful guide in smoke and flame. And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 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, But, present still, though now unseen, In shade and storm the frequent night, Our harps we left by Babel's streams- And mute are timbrel, trump and horn. SIR WALTER Scott. NEARER HOME. This beautiful poem, which has comforted so many Christian bears, will be prized, not only for its own sake, but as a fitting memorial to the gifted writer. NE sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er; Nearer my Father's house, Where the many mansions be; Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer gaining the crown! But the waves of that silent sea Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; Let my spirit feel in death, On the Rock of a living faith! This ode was composed at the request of Steele, who wrote "This is to desire of you that you would please to make an ode as of a cheerful, dying spirit; that is to say, the Emperor Adrian's dying address to his soul put into two or three stanzas for music." Pope replied with the three stanzas below, and says to Steele in a letter: "You have it, as Cowley calls it, warm from the brain. came to me the first moment I waked this morning." ITAL spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame! Hark! they whisper; angels say, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, The world recedes; it disappears; But, watchman, what of the night, When sorrow and pain are mine, And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright, No longer around me shine? "That night of sorrow thy soul May surely prepare to meet, But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, And the morning of joy be sweet." But, watchman, what of the night, When the arrow of death is sped, And the grave, which no glimmering star can light, Shall be my sleeping bed? "That night is near, and the cheerless tomb Shall keep thy body in store, Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom, And night shall be no more!" THE CHANGED CROSS. T was a time of sadness, and my heart, And while I thought on these, as given to me, And thus, no longer trusting to his might "Far heavier its weight must surely be A solemn silence reigned on all around, A moment's pause-and then a heavenly light And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way." Then, speaking thus, he led me far above, And one there was, most beauteous to behold- "Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear, For it will be an easy one to bear." And so the little cross I quickly took, This may not be," I cried, and looked again, Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, Ah, no! henceforth my own desire shall be. MRS. CHARLES HODART, |