CHANGES.

The ready wit, the mirth inspiring song,
With tales of old, the joyous scenes prolong;
While youthful Love and Hymen oft delight
To join the bridal with the festive night.

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CHANGES.

I, a silly fly,

That live or die,

According as the weather falls.

George Herbert.

АH, Lord! thou seest how changing, still,
Are these desires and hopes of mine ;
How slowly turns my wayward will
From Earth's unreal love, to Thine.

Sometimes, I take the ready wing
Of angels, and with lofty flight,
Sail round the upper bowers, where sing
To starry harps, the sons of light.

Oh, then, how ravishing appears
The dwelling of the spotless Blessed!
I gaze and shed delicious tears,
And long with them to be at rest.

H

All peaceful joys seem doubled then;
The world's behind, and all forgot
The thousand dreams that flatter men;
Their thousand cares-I know them not!

Yet, soon, of pinions shorn, I fall

Down, down, a dreary, dreadful way; And round my soul is wrapt the pall That shuts out every gleam of day.

Then Heaven seems parable, or far
Far, far beyond my hopeless aim;
And dimmer than the faintest star,
The beams that cluster round thy Name.

My God! I would no longer be

Thus foolish, fickle, false and vain; Oh, for the faith that soars to Thee, Nor sinks to weary Earth again!

THE CHURCH.

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THE CHURCH.

She rose, not only to pray, but to act, and from that time she has lengthened her cords, and strengthened her stakes. More than four hundred of her missionaries are among the heathen, and more than two hundred churches has she gathered in Pagan lands. You may hear God's praises in the western wilderness, in the islands of the Southern Sea, in Africa, in Ceylon, and in India, in Astrachan, and in Greenland. Hearken, my brethren, and you hear the Cherokee and Choctaw, the Hottentot and Hindu, the Greenlander and Otaheitian, all mingling their praises unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God, and his Father; unto Him be glory and dominion for ever and ever.-Edwards's Sermon.

YES, she has risen in her strength;
The Church! the Church of God
Puts on her robes and walks at length
Where her great Captain trod.

Her path is by the barren rock,

Her path is through the sea;

He's in the desert with his flock,
And in the deep, is He.

I trace her in the lonely Ark;
In Abraham's stranger tent;
And in the upper chamber, where

The Comforter was sent.

And while her troublers and their deeds
Pass on, and are entombed,
I see her towering-by the fire
Encompassed, not consumed.

Through Persecution's martyr flame,
Through famine, scathe and fears,
Through foul reproach, and scorn and shame,
And blood, and bitter tears-
Still onward, onward, is her way;

In weakness waxing strong;
Her proud device, the Star of Day,
And Victory her song.

I see her toils, abroad, at home,
From tropic to the pole,—
Wherever swells a pagan dome,
Or weeps a human soul.

The temple crumbles at her might;

The soul to Christ is given;

And where hung out the pall of night,

Now cluster beams of heaven.

THE CHURCH.

With principalities she wars;

With Satan's leaguing powers;

She scales his heights and plants her foot
Upon his tallest towers.

And fall before her trumpets' blast

The Dagons of renown;

And at her stern rebuke are cast

The shrine and priesthood down.

And not one banner of her train
In slumber may be furled-
Nor shall the sword return again
Drawn out to free a world-
Not till her empress step is found
Where'er is found the ban;
Nor till her cohorts tread each ground
Where lingers fallen man.

As the small dust is to the globe,
As rain drops to the sea-
So is her glorious Past, to what
Her Coming yet shall be!

Ask, and I'll give, saith God, for spoil

The heathen to my Son;

Fruit of his travail and his toil,

Conceived and dared and done.

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