There Penury's toil-wasted children may come, And the helpless, the houseless, at last find a home. What myriads unnumbered have sought its repose,

Since the day when the sun on creation first rose; And there, till earth's latest, dread morning shall break,

Shall its wide generations their last dwelling make:

But beyond is a world-how resplendently bright! And all that have lived shall be bathed in its light. We shall rise-we shall soar where earth's sorrows shall cease,

Though our mortal clay rests in the Valley of Peace!

CAROLINE M. SAWYER.

Call to Heaven.

OH, weary heart, there is a rest for thee!

Oh, truant heart, there is a blessed home— An isle of gladness on life's wayward sea,

Where storms that vex the waters never come; There trees perennial yield their balmy shade, There flower-wreathed hills in sunlit beauty sleep,

There meek streams murmur thro' the verdant

glade,

There heaven bends smiling o'er the placid

deep.

Winnowed by wings immortal that fair isle;
Vocal its air with music from above:
There meets the exile eye a welcoming smile;
There ever speaks a summoning voice of love
Unto the heavy-laden and distressed,
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest.”
ELIZABETH F. ELLET.

Palm Sunday.

YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy—

Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,

(If the word be not too bold,)
Giving virtue a new birth,
And a life that ne'er grows

old

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye, who hath set your parts ?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you, to lead

His Hosannahs here below ;-
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and woe.
But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,

Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones in earth's dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shall meet,
Ere His Name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue,
Be Thy praise so duly sung,
That Thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here.
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal
Lips, that might half Heaven reveal,
Should bards in idol-hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using,)
Then, Thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing;

Then waken into sound divine

The very pavement of Thy shrine,

Till we, like Heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore :

Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy,
If it flow from childlike hearts.

JOHN KEBLE.

Public Worship.

RESTORE to God his due in tithe and time;

A tithe purloin'd, cankers the whole estate. Sundays observe: think when the bells do chime, 'Tis angels' music; therefore come not late. God then deals blessings; if a king did so, Who would not haste, nay give, to see the show? Twice on the day his due is understood, For all the week thy food so oft he gave thee. Thy cheer is mended; bate not of the food, Because 'tis better, and perhaps may save thee. Thwart not th' Almighty God; O be not cross. Fast when thou wilt, but then 'tis gain, not loss. Though private prayer be a brave design, Yet public hath more promises, more love; And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a sign. We all are but cold suitors; let us move

Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven; Pray with the most; for where most pray, is heav'n.

When once thy foot enters the church, be bare. God is more there than thou: for thou art there Only by his permission. Then beware,

And make thyself all reverence and fear.

Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stocking: quit thy state:

All equal are within the church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most;
Praying's the end of preaching. O be drest;

Stay not for the other pin.
A joy for it worth worlds.
Away thy blessings, and

Why, thou hast lost Thus hell doth jest extremely flout thee,

Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul loose about thee.

In time of service seal up both thine eyes,
And send them to thy heart; that, spying sin,
They may weep out the stains by them did rise.
Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in.
Who marks in church-time others' symmetry,
Makes all their beauty his deformity.

Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part; Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasure thither.

Christ purg'd his temple: so must thou thy heart.
All wordly thoughts are but thieves met together
To cozen thee. Look to thy action well,
For churches either are our heaven or hell.

Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge:
If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not.
God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.
The worst speak something good: if all want

sense.

God takes a text, and preacheth patience.

He that gets patience, and the blessing which Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his pains. He that by being at church, escapes the ditch, Which he might fall in by companions, gains.