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THE JUBILEE.

LEVITICUS Xxv. 8-13.

THE trumpet's voice

The Sabbath of the jubilee announced;

The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land,
At once, in every city, echoing rings,

From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that, far within the desert's verge,
The crouching lion starts, and glares around.

Free is the bondman now; each one returns
To his inheritance. The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way. No hills are steep;
Smooth is each rugged path. His little ones
Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides
The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers.

At length, the hill from which a farewell look, And still another parting look, he cast

On his paternal vale, appears in view.

The summit gained, throbs hard his heart, with joy And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more.

Instant his eager eye darts to the roof

Where first he saw the light. His youngest born
He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says, "There my fathers lived, and there they sleep."

Onward he wends: near and more near he drawsHow sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook!

The sunbeam, slanting through the cedar grove,
How lovely, and how mild! but lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first;—and dear the fig-tree shade,
In which, on Sabbath eve, his father told
Of Israel, from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desert to the promised land.
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews;
And still at midnight hour he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,-
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy.

ALL THINGS TO BE CHANGED.

I LOVE to see the falling leaf,
To watch the waning moon:

I love to cherish the belief

That all will change so soon.

I love to see the beauteous flowers
In bright succession pass;
As they would deck the fleeting hours,
And hide Time's ebbing glass.

I love the rushing wind to hear
Through the dismantled trees,
And shed the sad but silent tear

O'er joys that changed like these.

I love to think the glorious earth
Is but a splendid tomb,

Whence man to an immortal birth
Shall rise in deathless bloom;

That nothing in its bosom dies,
But all, in endless change,
Shall, in some brighter form, arise,
Or brighter region range.

On this fair couch then rest thy head
In peace, poor child of sorrow;
For He, the God of truth, has said,
"Thou shalt be changed to-morrow!"

Changed, as the saints and angels are,
To glories ever new;
Corrupt shall incorruption wear,
And death shall life renew.

"THEY WENT OUT INTO THE MOUNT OF OLIVES."

THERE's something sweet in scenes of gloom

To hearts of joy bereft ;

When hope has wither'd in its bloom,

When friends are going to the tomb,

Or in the tomb are left.

"Tis night-a lovely night :-and lo!
Like men in vision seen,

The Savior and his brethren go,
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,

Led by heaven's lamp serene,

From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream,

To Olivet's dark steep;

There o'er past joys, gone like a dream,

O'er future woes, that present seem,

In solitude to weep.

Heaven on their earthly hopes has frown'd:
Their dream of thrones has fled;

The table, that his love has crown'd,
They ne'er again shall gather round,
With Jesus at their head.

Blast not, O God, this hope of ours,
The hope of sins forgiven ;-
Then when our friends the grave devours,
When all the world around us lowers,
We'll look from earth to heaven.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere.

Heap'd in the hollows of the grove the wither'd leaves lie dead,

They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's

tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub

the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister

hood?

Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of

flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.

The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones

again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the sum

mer glow;

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the

wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home,

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

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