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Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then,
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;

We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men;

Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,
Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey
take.

How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears,
Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings,
In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years
And, screaming like a vulture in his ears,
Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of
shame,

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.

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Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death-
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, “Behold, he prays!”

The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son,
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor

prayer is made on earth alone:
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus on the eternal throne
For mourners intercedes.

O Thou! by whom we come to God,
The life, the truth, the way!
The path of prayer thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray.

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,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain:
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the churchyard porch;
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried:
No step approaches to the house of prayer:
The flickering fall is o'er; the clouds disperse,
And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire ;
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below,
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood.

But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm,
The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep sunk dell:
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes, and full oft a heavier fall,
Heaped by the blast, fills up the shelter'd glen.
While gurgling deep below the buried rill

Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh! then
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift

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,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.

JAMES GRAHAME.

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