Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke,
And at that hour when all aghast I stand
(A trembling candidate for thy compassion)
On this world's brink, and look into the next-
When my soul, starting from the dark unknown,
Casts back a wishful look, and fondly clings
To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrenched
From this fair scene, from all her customed joys
And all the lovely relatives of life-
Then shed thy comforts o'er me; then put on
The gentlest of thy looks. Let no dark crimes
In all their hideous forms then starting up
Plant themselves round my couch in grim array,
And stab my bleeding heart with two-edged torture,—
Sense of past guilt, and dread of future woe.
Far be the ghastly crew! and in their stead
Let cheerful Memory from her purest cells
Lead forth a goodly train of virtues fair,
Cherished in earliest youth, now paying back
With tenfold usury the pious care,
And pouring o'er my wounds the heavenly balm
Of conscious innocence. But chiefly Thou,
Whom soft-eyed Pity once led down from heaven
To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And oh! still harder lesson! how to die,
Disdain not Thou to smooth the restless bed
Of sickness and of pain.-Forgive the tear
That feeble Nature drops, calm all her fears,
Wake all her hopes, and animate her faith,
Till my rapt soul, anticipating heaven,
Bursts from the thraldom of incumbering clay,
And on the wing of Ecstasy upborne,
Springs into liberty, and light, and life.-BISHOP PORTEUS.
THE CHURCH BELLS.
WHAT varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles
Sweep o'er the ear, and claim the heart's reply!
Now the blithe peal of home festivity,
Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells:
Now the brisk chime, or voice of altered bells,
Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh:
And now the last stage of mortality
The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells.
How much of human life those sounds comprise;
Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb!
Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise,
Such as befit our being, free from gloom
Monastic,-prayer that communes with the skies,
And musings mindful of the final doom.-D. C. July, 1832.
HAIL to the day, which He, who made the heaven,
Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest,
Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest!
Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given
New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,
Arose! That day his Church hath still confest
At once Creation's and Redemption's feast,
Sign of a world called forth, a world forgiven.
Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,
The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed,
And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase
In sanctity, and sweet repose bestowed;
Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease,
The rest remaining for the loved of God !-D. C.
"CHILD OF MORTALITY, WHENCE COMEST THOU, AND WHITHER HATH THY FEET BEEN WANDERING!“
I've been gathering many a lovely flower,
Some were lightly wet with the Summer-shower;
I've been searching the woods and grassy dells,
And have brought back a treasure of buds and bells,
And I felt so glad in the sunny ray!
Thou did'st!-Did'st thou think of thy God by the way?
I've been watching the tints of the evening sky,
And the clouds as they floated in silence by,
And I've seen the amber and purple decay,
Giving place to a dull unvaried gray,
And I've seen the sun give his parting smile
Thou hast! Hast thou thought of thy God the while!
I've been looking out on the lovely night,
The earth was robed in the moon's soft light
Myriads of stars were glittering on high,
And all was still save the wind's low sigh,
And I felt a calm steal over my mind—
Thou did'st!--Was the voice of thy God in the wind?
I've been with a gay and festive throng,
And have joined in the joyous dance and song;
I've been gazing on graceful forms and fair,
On sparkling eyes and clustering hair,—
All looked so gay in the lighted hall!
They did!-Did they think of the God of all?
I've been with the friends my soul loves best;
With many a fond kiss hath my cheek been prest;
And I've hung with delight on the soft low tone
That spoke but of cares and of sorrows flown;
And with them so happy I always feel!
Thou dost !-Thy thoughts from thy God they steal.
I've been listening the organ's solemn peal,
And the chanted hymn,-and I felt it steal
My heart from the harassing dreams of earth;
And then soothing thoughts of Heaven had birth:
Oh! I love to go to the house of prayer!
It is well! for thy God is with thee there!-F.
AN ANSWER TO "WHAT IS TIME?" "KNOWEST thou me not?" the deep voice cried; "So long enjoyed, so oft misused : Alternate in thy fickle pride,
Desired, neglected, and abused.
"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away,
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
"Redeem my hours,-the space is brief,
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,
When TIME and thou shalt part for ever."
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
TIME speeds away-away-away:
Another hour-another day-
Another month-another year-
Drop from us like the leaflets sear;
Drop like the life-blood from our hearts;
The rose-bloom from the cheek departs,
The tresses from the temples fall,
The eye grows dim and strange to all.
Time speeds away-away-away,
Like torrent in a stormy day;
He undermines the stately tower,
Uproots the tree, and snaps the flower;
And sweeps from our distracted breast
The friends that loved-the friends that blest:
And leaves us weeping on the shore
To which they can return no more.
Time speeds away-away-away:
No eagle through the skies of day,
No wind along the hills can flee
So swiftly or so smooth as he.
Like fiery steed—from stage to stage,
He bears us on from youth to age;
Then plunges in the fearful sea
Of fathomless eternity.-KNOX.
WE ARE BUT DUST.
ONE part, one little part, we dimly scan,
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem;
Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem.
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise:
Oh! then renounce that impious self-esteem
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
For thou art but of dust,-be humble and be wise.-BEATTIE.
REFLECTIONS ON RETIRING TO REST.
It is good, when we lay on the pillow our head,
And the silence of night all around us is spread,
To reflect on the deeds we have done through the day,
Nor allow it to pass without profit away.
A day-what a trifle !-and yet the amount
Of the days we have passed form an awful account,
And the time may arrive when the world we would give,
Were it ours, might we have but another to live.
In whose service have we through the day been employed
And what are the pleasures we mostly enjoyed?
Our desires and our wishes, to what did they tend,
To the world we are in, or the world without end?
Hath the sense of His presence encompass'd us round,
Without whom not a sparrow can fall to the ground?
Have our hearts turned to Him with devotion most true,
Or been occupied only with things that we view?
Have we often reflected how soon we must go
To the mansions of bliss, or the regions of woe?
Have we felt unto God a repentance sincere,
And in faith to the Saviour of sinners drawn near?
Let us thus with ourselves solemn conference hold,
Ere sleep's silken fetters our senses enfold;
And forgiveness implore for the sins of the day,
Nor allow them to pass unrepented away.-BENTHAM.
ON AN HOUR-GLASS.
MARK! the golden grains that pass
Brightly through this channelled glass,
Measuring, by their ceaseless fall,
Heaven's most precious gift to all!
Pauseless,-till its sand be done
See the shining current run
Till, its inward treasure shed,
(Lo! another hour has fled !)
Its task performed, its travail past,
Like mortal man, it rests at last.
Yet let some hand invert its frame,
And all its powers return the same―
For all the golden grains remain
To work their little hour again.
But who shall turn the glass for man,
From which the golden current ran,
Collect again the precious sand
Which time hath scattered with his hand,
Bring back life's stream with vital power,
And bid it run another hour?
A thousand years of toil were vain
To gather up a single grain!-J. M.
THE MONTH OF JUNE.
BUT welcome, of the SUMMER SUN
Bright offspring! welcome glorious June. *
How glorious is yon vaulted dome!
Far as the excursive eye can roam,
From that deep azure overhead
To where the earth's wide girdle spread
Around us terminates the view
With paler and yet paler blue;
No spot pollutes the pure serene,
Or if a transient spot be seen
Of scattered vapour here and there
Ascending through the calm clear air,
Soon fades it from the following sight,
And melting joins the abyss of light.
Then as the SUN draws near his rest
Of glory, twixt the north and west,
How changed is that horizon pale!
How from behind the filmy veil
Looks forth the setting orb of gold!
And here the twilight dim infold
The face of things, what tints are seen,
Of brilliant yellow, purple, green,
Flooding the sky with liquid gleams!
Thence mounting upward, how the streams
On some small cloud, if cloud appear,
Scarce moving through the concave sphere,
Cast their reflection's vivid glow;
Illumining the skirts below
With gold and purple hues arrayed,
The parts superior veiled in shade! * * * *
But what's the Sun, with strength arrayed
And majesty, to HIM who made
And holds him in his daily course?
If his be vigour, what's the force
Which formed him and preserves him strong! If majesty to him belong,
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