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To prayer;—for the day that God has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to heaven the hallow'd hours.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
0, hour of bliss ! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; .
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling

hand. What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell ! Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer. Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul through Him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his browO, what is earth and its pleasures now! And what shall assuage his dark despair, But the penitent cry of humble prayer ? Kneel down at the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends ; There is peace in his eye that upward bends ;

There is peace in his calm, confiding air ;
For his last thoughts are God's, his last words

prayer.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier !
A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where He shall reign,
Who whisper'd, “ Thy brother shall rise again.”
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss !
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise ;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.
To Him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given ;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

HENRY WARE.

A Psalm of Life.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
1 “Life is but an empty dream!”
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal; “ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

All, all on Earth, is Shadow. THY then their loss deplore, that are not lost?

Why wanders wretched thought their tombs

around, In infidel distress ? Are angels there? Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire ?

They live! they greatly live a life on Earth Unkindled, unconceived; and from an eye Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall On me, more justly number'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude: How populous, how vital, is the grave! This is creation's melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; The land of apparitions, empty shades ! All, all on Earth, is shadow, all beyond Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed. How solid all, where change shall be no more!

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule : Life's theatre as yet is shut, and Death, Strong Death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove,

And make us embryos of existence free.
From real life, but little more remote
Is he, not yet a candidate for light,
The future embryo, slumbering in his sire.
Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell,
Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life,
The life of gods, O transport ! and of man.

Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts;
Inters celestial hopes without one sigh.
Prisoner of Earth, and pent beneath the Moon,
Here pinions all his wishes ; wing'd by Heaven
To fly at infinite; and reach it there,
Where seraphs gather immortality,
On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.
What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow,
In his full beam, and ripen for the just,
Where momentary ages are no more!
Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death

expire! And is it in the flight of threescore years, To push eternity from human thought, And smother souls immortal in the dust ? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumult, raptur’d or alarm’d, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. Where falls this censure ? It o’erwhelms

myself; How was my heart incrusted by the world! O how self-fetter'd was my grovelling soul!

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