Come, Lord ! when Grace has made

me meet.
LORD, it belongs not to my care,

Whether I die or live;
To live and serve Thee is my share,

And this Thy grace must give.
If life be long, I will be glad,

That I may long obey;
If short, yet why should I be sad,

That shall have the same pay ?

Christ leads me through no darker rooms

Than He went through before; He that unto God's kingdom comes

Must enter by this door. Come, Lord! when

grace

has made me meet Thy blessed face to see ; For if Thy work on earth be sweet,

What must Thy glory be?

Then shall I end my sad complaints,

And weary, sinful days,
And join with the triumphant saints,

That sing Jehovah's praise.
My knowledge of that life is small,

The eye of faith is dim;
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all,
And I shall be with Him.

BAXTER.

Days of Joy ensue sad Nights of

Sorrow.
WHAT joyful harvester did e'er obtain

The sweet fruition of his hopeful gain,
Till he in hardy labours first had pass’d
The summer's heat, and stormy winter's blast ?
A sable night returns a shining morrow,
And days of joy ensue sad nights of sorrow;
The
way

to bliss lies not on beds of down, And he that had no cross deserves no crown. There's but one heaven, one place of perfect ease, In man it lies, to take it where he please, Above, or here elow : and few men do Enjoy the one, and taste the other too: Sweating, and constant labour wins the goal Of rest; afflictions clarify the soul, And like hard masters, give more hard directions, Tutoring the nonage of uncurb’d affections. Wisdom, the antidote of sad despair, Makes sharp afflictions seem not as they are, Through patient sufferance; and doth apprehend, Not as they seeming are, but as they end. To bear affliction with a bended brow, Or stubborn heart, is but to disallow The speedy means to health ; salve heals no sore, If misapplied, but makes the grief the more. Who sends affliction, sends an end, and he Best knows what's best for him, what's best for

I'll neither wish nor yet avoid temptation,
But still expect it, and make preparation :
If he think best, my faith shall not be tried,
Lord, keep me spotless from presumptuous pride:
If otherwise with his trial, give me care,
By thankful patience to prevent despair :
Fit me to bear whate'er thou shalt assign;
I kiss the rod, because the rod is thine.

Howe'er, let me not boast, nor yet repine ;
With trial, or without, Lord, make me thine.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

Death of the Righteous.
OH!
H! beautiful beyond depicting words

To paint the hour that wafts a soul to heaven!
The world grows dim, the scenes of time depart,
The hour of peace, the walk of social joy,
The mild companion, and the deep-souled friend,
The loved and lovely—see his face no more.
The mingling spell of sun, of sea and air,
Is broken: voice and gaze, and smiles that speak
Must perish; parents take their hushed adieu ;
A wife, a child, a daughter half divine,
Or son that never drew a father's tear,-
Approach him, and his dying tones receive.
Like God's own language! 'tis an hour of awe,
Yet terrorless, when revelations flow
From faith immortal ; view that pale worn brow,
It gleams with glory!—in his eyes there dawns
A dazzling earnest of unuttered joy.

Each pang subdued, his longing soul respires
The gales of glorified eternity;
And round him, hues ethereal, harps of light,
And lineaments of earthless beauty, throng,
As, winged on melody, the saint departs,
While heaven in miniature before him shines,

ROBERT MONTGOMERY.

Devotion Breathes Aloud from every

Chord.
WHEN first, in ancient time, from Jubal’s

tongue,
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
To sacred hymnings and Elysian song
His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke.
Devotion breathed aloud from every chord ;-
The voice of praise was heard in every tone,
And

prayer, and thanks to Him, the Eternal

OneTo Him, that, with bright inspiration, touched The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, And warmed the soul with new vitality. A stirring energy through Nature breathed !The voice of adoration from her broke, Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard Long in the sullen waterfall,—what time Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth Its bloom or blighting,—when the Summer smiled, Or Winter o'er the year's sepulchre mourned, The Deity was there!—a nameless spirit

Moved in the hearts of men to do Him homage;
Or when the Morning smiled, or Evening, pale,
Hung weeping o'er the melancholy sun,
They came beneath the broad o'erarching trees,
And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft,
Where the pale vine clung round their simple

altars, And gray moss mantling hung. Above was heard The melody of winds, breathed out as the green

trees Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, That choked its weedy fountain—and dark rocks, Worn smooth by the constant current, even there The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice, Where weeds grew rank upon the rushy brink, And to the wandering wind the green sedge bent, Sang a sweet song of fixed tranquillity. Men felt the heavenly influence; and it stole Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace; And even the air they breathed,

-the light they

saw,

Became religion ;--for the ethereal spirit,
That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling,
And mellows everything to beauty, moved
With cheering energy within their breasts,
And made all holy there—for all was love.
The morning stars that sweetly sang together
The moon that hung at night in the mid-sky-
Day-spring-and eventide—and all the fair
And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice