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Even then my soul, with brighter visions blest,
Finds in this hallowed spot a pilgrim's rest.

Ye fond and faithful few

To me united in the Saviour's name,
Who still through life's varieties are true,
And cherished still the same;
And ye, with whom communings dear
I hold in this far distant sphere,
And seek the city out of sight,
Our eager faith's delight-

Meet me in spirit here!

Be this heaven's gate,

Where our glad souls in blest assurance wait,
And angel-hosts delighted fly

To waft our words on high,

And with the earthly dross their holy incense blend, That they may bear an offering meet

Unto the mercy-seat.

Here be each vow renewed

That rose in solitude,

And banished every care that might intrude,

For we are conquerors here!

Here, as on Pisgah's Mount we stand,

And view by faith the promised land,

Where the many mansions bright

Our souls invite

Though prisoners still, celestial bliss we share,

And wait the welcome word, to reign in glory there!

Z.

RIZ PA H.

2 SAM. XXI. 10.

It is not that I think the spirit's light

Back to those vacant eyes can e'er return, Or that the lips all silent now as night

Again can breathe the love for which I yearn; That thus I watch beside my noble dead,

While cold night-winds and dews are round me shed.

I know that when the death-film finds a rest,
The darkness of the grave for ever lies;
The faithful heart by such cold chains oppressed
With throb responsive never more replies;

Life in those forms mine eyes wait not to see,
Yet still I watch, though vain such watch may be.

My soul is rent with agony! but, oh!

Deeper the pang, to gaze on these no more; The hour of my farewell must come, I know— Why should I haste its anguish to explore? Oh! let me tarry by this faded clay

Till time hath borne each lingering trace away!

So the dew fell around her, and the blast

Poured forth its ruthless fury on the spot;
And birds of prey their ravenous glances cast

On those pale forms, but she forsook them not;
And her wild tears fell on the rock like rain,
But could not wake those flowers to life again.

Oh! blame her not, nor yet the true and deep,

Though ineffectual love and care, she gave;
Oh! blame her not, who thus could watch and weep
So hopelessly her prayers, which could not save,
On her own head with showers of blessings fell,
And she was strengthened for her last farewell!

Mortal! bethink thee, didst thou never cling

Unto some cherished good with love like this? Back to the world the parted soul to bring,

Would'st thou not yield thine all of earthly bliss ? What is the anguish that thou wouldst not brave Some treasure from its threatened wreck to save!

Are there not thousands spiritually dead

That on the rocks of sin neglected lie,
Have ye no prayers to give, no tears to shed
For them, no drops of Christian sympathy?
Ye who to earth your best and dearest give,
Can ye not watch one hour, that these may live?

She had no sweetener in her bitter cup,

Too well she knew both prayers and tears were vain;

Ye to the God of covenants can look up,

Whose word returns not void to him again;

He in your labours will be ever nigh

Whose words are, "Turn ye! wherefore will

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CHRIST WEEPING OVER JERUSALEM.

AT close of that triumphant day,

While yet the palm-branch strewed the way,
Before the glorious sun had set

Upon the brow of Olivet,

Or loud hosannas scarce had died

Along the echoing mountain's side,

Which infant tongues were tuned to raise,
To swell the note of Jesus' praise.
Descending from that hallowed hill,
The Man of sorrows lingered still:
He saw where Salem's mountains rise
Like giant bulwarks to the skies;
He saw her towers and temple fair
In bright and beauteous order there,
Whence wondering kings had fled away,
So strong and perfect their array:
But only he could see how God
Had on them written "Ichabod !"

He saw that Temple wreathed in flame,

He knew the sorrow, sin, and shame,

That, darkening round the fane of God,

Should drench its towers and streets with blood.

He saw her glory laid in dust,

And Sion's daughters doubly curst,

Where God and man unite to dart
The vengeful arrow to her heart.
And still he stood, for she was dear,
And o'er her woes he dropt a tear,
Most precious tear, that fell below
To sparkle o'er a world of wo,
And shineth still, a glorious gem,
To beautify Jerusalem!

That tear of pity was not shed

O'er friends who loved his sacred head,

But enemies, whose hate and scorn

Should crown it soon with piercing thorn.

Before him rose that dreadful hour,
Whose awful horrors had the power

To wring the cry of agony,

66

Why hast thou, God, forsaken me ?”

He heard the wild infuriate cry
Of" Crucify him! crucify!"
And then before his vision came
The buffeting, the spitting, shame,
The barbed shafts of bitter scorn,
The mockery of that coming morn,
When, clothed in robes of kingly pride,
The worms of earth should God deride:
Nor hidden then the accursed tree,
The wounds and groans of Calvary!
No-all was open to that eye,
As sunshine in the summer sky,

Yet could not check the tear that rose

And fell o'er Salem's guilt and woes.

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