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From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites,
A purer piece of endless transitory,
And we, a lonely band,
To bless Thy fostering hand.
To praises low as ours ?
The song which meekness pours.
As we before Thee pray;
And we are less than they.
And let contention cease;
Thine everlasting peace!
A flock by Jesus led;
In glory on our head.
And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And Thou wilt bless our way;
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Universal Beauty. TIKE Nature's law, no eloquence persuades,
The mute harangue our every sense invades; The apparent precepts of the eternal will, His every work, and every object fill; Round with our eyes his revelation wheels, Our every touch his demonstration feels. And, O Supreme! whene'er we cease to know Thee, the sole source whence sense and science
flow; Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail. And more than monster o'er the man prevail.
Not thus he gave our optics' vital glance, Amid omniscient art, to search for chance, Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame; Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme: Nor thus he willed the creatures of his nod, And made the mortal to unmake his God; Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave, And bid the wide obsequious world conceive; Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise, And, with young transport, gaze the novel skies:
Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud,
For thou must die.
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
And thou must die.
A box where sweets compacted lie,-
And all must die.
Like seasoned timber never gives ;
Then chiefly lives.
VJesper Thoughts. THE summer day is closed—the sun is set; 1 Well they have done their office, those bright
hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red West. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young
twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; The mother-bird have broken for her brood Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, In woodland cottages with barky walls, In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out And filled, and closed. This day hath parted
friends That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long