Our home is not on earth; although we sleep, We cannot slumber always in the den Even at the parting hour the soul will wake, How awful is that hour, when conscience stings How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame. JAMES G. PERCIVAL. What is Prayer ? PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed; The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles at the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, Prayer is the simplest form of speech Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, His watchword at the gates of death- Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, The saints in prayer appear as one, Nor prayer is made on earth alone: And Jesus on the eternal throne O Thou! by whom we come to God, JAMES MONTGOMERY. When Spring Unlocks the Flowers. WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers, to paint the laughing soil; When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade ; The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent pomp display. Shall man the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, Shall man alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No,-let the year cease to be, forsake his course, the seasons Thee, Master, must we always love; and, Saviour, honour Thee. The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, The Autumn droop in Winter,—the birds forsake the shade,— The wind be lulled,—the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee. BISHOP HEBER. Winter Sabbath Walk. HOW dazzling white the snowy scene; deep, deep, The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day, Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields, But what the beauty of the plain, compared Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh! then away: So the Great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock From faithless pleasures full into the storms Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green He brings them where the quiet waters glide, JAMES GRAHAME. |