And their bright squadrons round about us

plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward: Oh! why should heavenly God to man have

such regard ? EDMUND SPENSER.

Awake, sweet Harp of Judah, Wake ! A WAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake,

Re-tune thy strings for Jesu's sake; We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place. When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh! where, shall man retire, T'escape the horrors of his ire ? 'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by; God sees his Well-beloved's face, And spares us in our hiding-place. Thus, while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen; To Him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son. While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place.

Yet, courage !-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside ;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesu's cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

As withereth the Primrose by the River.
AS withereth the primrose by the river,
A As fadeth summer's sun from gliding foun-

tains,
As vanisheth the light blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains :
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow,
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life

gathers),
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy!
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer's sun, from weeping fountains,
The light blown, vanished for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,

Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away.

HENRY KING.

Aspirations of the Soul. AH! when did wisdom covet length of days, A Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth or praise ? No:-wisdom views with an indifferent eye, All finite joys, all blessings born to die. The soul on earth is an immortal guest, Compelled to starve at an unreal feast : A spark that upward tends by nature's force; A stream diverted from its parent source; A drop dissever'd from the boundless sea ; A moment parted from eternity ! A pilgrim, panting for a rest to come ; An exile, anxious for his native home.

BISHOP HEBER.

Around Bethesda's Healing Wave.
AROUND Bethesda’s healing wave

Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave

Its virtue to that holy spring,
With patience and with hope endued,
Were seen the gathered multitude.
Among them there was one whose eye

Had often seen the waters stirred;
Whose heart had often heaved the sigh,

The bitter sigh of hope deferred ;
Beholding, while he suffered on,
The healing virtue given,—and gone !

No power had he; no friendly aid

To him its timely succour brought; But, while his coming he delayed,

Another won the boon he sought ;Until the Saviour's love was shown, Which healed him by a word alone ! Had they who watched and waited there

Been conscious who was passing by, With what unceasing, anxious care,

Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved, with fervency of soul, His power divine to make them whole ! But habit and tradition swayed

Their minds to trust to sense alone; They only hoped the angel's aid;

While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, With power from every pain to free. Bethesda’s pool has lost its power!

No angel, by his glad descent,
Dispenses that diviner dower

Which with its healing waters went,
But He, whose word surpassed its wave,
Is still omnipotent to save.
And what that fountain once was found,

Religion's outward forms remain-
With living virtue only crowned

While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure!

Yet are there who this truth confess,

Who know how little forms avail,
But whose protracted helplessness

Confirms the impotent's sad tale ;
Who, day by day, and year by year,
As emblems of his lot appear.
They hear the sounds of life and love,

Which tell the visitant is nigh;
They see the troubled waters move,

Whose touch alone might health supply ;
But weak of faith, infirm of will,
Are powerless, helpless, hopeless still.
Saviour! thy love is still the same

As when that healing word was spoke ;
Still in thine all-redeeming name

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke. Oh! be that power, that love displayed ! Help those, whom Thou alone canst aid !

BERNARD BARTON.

Abraham. THE better portion didst thou choose, Great I Heart, Thy God's first choice, and pledge of Gentile

Faith's truest type, he with unruffled face Bore the world's smile, and bade her slaves depart; Whether, a trader, with no trader's art,