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O'erwhelming thoughts of pain and grief Over His sinking spirit sweep:

"What boots it gathering one lost leaf

Out of yon sere and wither'd heap—
Where souls and bodies, hopes and joys,
All that earth owns, or sin destroys,
Under the spurning hoof are cast,
Or tossing in the autumnal blast?"

The deaf may hear the Saviour's voice,
The fetter'd tongue its chain may break;
But the deaf heart, the dumb by choice,

The laggard soul, that will not wake,
The guilt that scorns to be forgiven-
These baffle e'en the spells of heaven;
In thought of these, his brows benign
Not even in healing cloudless shine.

No

eye but His might ever bear
To gaze all down that drear abyss;
Because none ever saw so clear

The shore beyond of endless bliss.
The giddy waves so restless hurl'd,
The vex'd pulse of this feverish world,
He views and counts with steady sight,
Used to behold the Infinite.

But that in such communion high

He hath a fount of strength within, Sure His meek heart would break and die, O'erburden'd by his brethren's sin. Weak eyes on darkness dare not gaze— It dazzles like the noon-day blaze;

But He who sees God's face may brook
On the true face of sin to look.

What then shall wretched sinners do,

When in their last, their hopeless day, Sin, as it is, shall meet their view,

God turn his face for aye away?

Lord! by thy sad and earnest eye,
When Thou did'st look to heaven and sigh;
Thy voice, that with a word could chase
The dumb, deaf spirit from his place;

As thou hast touch'd our ears, and taught
Our tongues to speak thy praises plain,
Quell Thou each thankless, godless thought
That would make fast our bonds again.
From worldly strife, from mirth unblest,
Drowning thy music in the breast,
From foul reproach, from thrilling fears,
Preserve, good Lord! thy servants' ears.

From idle words, that restless throng,

And haunt our hearts when we would pray--From pride's false chime, and jarring wrong, Seal thou my lips, and guard the way :

For thou hast sworn, that every ear,
Willing or loth, thy trump shall hear,
And every tongue unchainèd be
To own no hope, no God, but Thee!

TO THE WATCHER, THE HOLY ONE.

EDMUND PEEL.

ON love eternal do we nightly rest,

On Him who careth casting all our care? O Lord! for thou art willing, hear our prayer! And grant, for thou art able, our request! From ghastly visions which the soul molest, Phantoms around the dungeon of despair, From cruel outrage, and from subtle snare, Preserve, O Lord! thy people sore-oppress'd! They in the light of thine unwearied eye

Who find protection, lay them down in peace, To live rejoicing, and resign'd to die; For, to the faithful, death is a releaseThe portal to that Paradise on high

In which the living from their labours cease.

GATHER RIPE FRUITS, O DEATH!

THOMAS RAGG,

GATHER ripe fruits, O Death!

Strew not the pathway of the tomb with flowers;
Invade not childhood with thy withering breath;
Pass on! and touch not youth's bright sunny bowers.

There are enough for thee

Of hearts that long for thy serene repose,

That fain among the lowly-laid would be,

Pierced deep with festering wounds that will not close.

Go to the desolate,

Whom thou hast robb'd of every star-bright thing,

On whom the smiles of hope no longer wait,
Whose loves have pass'd upon the morning's wing.

Go to the wearied frame,

That seeks to slumber on the grave's cold breast,
That finds life's pleasures but an empty name,
And longs to flee away and be at rest.

P

Go to the saints of God,

Whose souls are weary of the world and sin,
Who fain would tread the path their Saviour trod,
And greet the tomb that lets heaven's glories in.

Take these, take these to rest!

But smite not childhood in its mirthful play,
Snatch not the infant from its mother's breast,
Steal not the loved and loving ones away!

Gather ripe fruits, O Death!

Strew not the pathway of the tomb with flowers ;
Invade not childhood with thy withering breath;

Pass on! and touch not youth's bright fragrant bowers.

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