And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God,

His honour'd head lies low,

And his thoughts of power are done,

And his voices manly flow,

And his pen that, for truth, like a sword was

drawn,

It still and soulless now.

The brave old man is gone!

With his armour on he fell;

Nor a groan nor a sign was drawn,

When his spirit fled, to tell;

For mortal sufferings, keen and long,

Had no power his heart to quell.

The good old man is gone!
He is gone to his saintly rest,
Where no sorrow can be known,

And no trouble can molest;

For his crown of life is won,

And the dead in Christ are blessed!

GEORGE W. DOANE.

Her lowly Gift was Witnessed.
AMID the pompous crowd

Of rich adorers, came a humble form;

A widow, meek as poverty doth make
Her children! with a look of sad content,
Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast:

Then timidly as bashful twilight, stole
From out the temple. But her lowly gift
Was witnessed by an eye, whose mercy views,
In motive, all that consecrates a deed

To goodness:-so He blessed the Widow's Mite
Beyond the gifts abounding wealth bestowed.—
Thus is it, Lord! with Thee: the heart is thine,
And all the world of hidden action there
Works in thy sight, like waves beneath the sun,
Conspicuous! and a thousand nameless acts
That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die

Unnoticed, like the trodden flowers which fall
Beneath a proud man's foot,-to Thee are known,
And written with a sunbeam in the Book
Of Life, where Mercy fills the brightest page!
ROBERT MONTGOMERY.

The Life of the Blessed.

REGION of life and light!

Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!

Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore,

Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore!

There, without crook or sling,

Walks the Good Shepherd; blossoms white and red

Round his meek temples cling;

And, to sweet pastures led,

His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed.

He guides, and near him they
Follow delighted; for he makes them go
Where dwells eternal May,
And heavenly roses blow,
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good,
And fountains of delight;

And where his feet have stood,
Springs up, along the way, their tender food.
And when, in the mid skies,

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,

He witches the still air with numerous sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth,

And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil.

Might but a little part,

A wandering breath, of that high melody
Descend into my heart,

And change it till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, O love! in thee:
Ah! then my soul should know,
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day;
And from this place of woe

Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.

LUIS PONCE DE LEON, Trans. by BRYANT.

Thou knowest I Love Thee, Dearest
Lord.

Do not I love Thee, O my Lord ?—
Behold heart and see;

my

And turn each hateful idol out,
That dares to rival Thee.

Do not I love Thee from my soul?
Then let me nothing love;
Dead be my heart to every joy,
When Jesus cannot move.

Is not thy name melodious still,
To mine attentive ear ?-

Doth not each pulse with pleasure bound,
My Saviour's voice to hear?

Hast Thou a lamb in all thy flock,

I would disdain to feed ?

Hast Thou a foe before whose face

I fear thy cause to plead ?

Would not my heart pour forth its blood

In honour of thy name?

And challenge the cold hand of death
To damp the immortal flame.

Thou knowest I love Thee, dearest Lord;

But Oh! I long to soar,

Far from the sphere of mortal joys,

And learn to love Thee more.

DODDRIDGE.

The Anchor of Hope.

HOPE sets the stamp of vanity on all

That men have deemed substantial since the

fall,

Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe
From emptiness itself a real use;

And while she takes, as at a father's hand,
What health and sober appetite demand,
From fading good derives, with chemic art,
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart.
Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth,
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth,
On steady wings sails through th' immense abyss,
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss,
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here,
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear.
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast.
Hope! nothing else can nourish and secure
His new-born virtues and
preserve him
pure.
Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy,
Whom now despairing agonies destroy,

Speak, for he can, and none so well as he,
What treasures centre, what delights, in thee.
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land
That boasts the treasure, all at his command;
The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine,

Were light, when viewed against one smile of

thine.

WILLIAM COWPER.