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And their bright squadrons round about us
plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward : Oh! why should heavenly God to man have such regard ?
Awake, sweet Harp of Judah, Wake !
Re-tune thy strings for Jesu's sake;
When God's right arm is bared for war,
the horrors of his ire ?
Yet, courage !-days and years will glide,
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
As withereth the Primrose by the River.
S withereth the primrose by the river,
mossy mountains : So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow, Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Aspirations of the Soul. A H! when did wisdom covet length of days, ,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth or praise ? No:-wisdom views with an indifferent eye, All finite joys, all blessings born to die. The soul on earth is an immortal guest, Compelled to starve at an unreal feast : A spark that upward tends by nature’s force; A stream diverted from its parent source; A drop dissever'd from the boundless sea ; A moment parted from eternity! A pilgrim, panting for a rest to come; An exile, anxious for his native home.
Around Bethesda's Healing Wave. A
ROUND Bethesda’s healing wave
Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Its virtue to that holy spring,
Had often seen the waters stirred;
The bitter sigh of hope deferred ;
No power had he; no friendly aid
To him its timely succour brought;
Another won the boon he sought ;-
Been conscious who was passing by,
Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved, with fervency of soul, His power
divine to make them whole ! But habit and tradition swayed
Their minds to trust to sense alone; They only hoped the angel's aid;
While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, With power from
every pain to free. Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel, by his glad descent,
Which with its healing waters went,
Religion's outward forms remain-
While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure!
Yet are there who this truth confess,
Who know how little forms avail,
Confirms the impotent's sad tale ;
Which tell the visitant is nigh;
Whose touch alone might health supply ;
As when that healing word was spoke ;
Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke. Oh! be that power, that love displayed ! Help those, whom Thou alone canst aid !
Abraham. THE better portion didst thou choose, Great
Heart, Thy God's first choice, and pledge of Gentile
grace! Faith's truest type, he with unruffled face Bore the world's smile, and bade her slaves depart; Whether, a trader, with no trader's art,