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A practical rebuker of vain strife,
Bolder in deeds than words, from beardless

To the white hairs of age, he made his life

A beautiful consecration to the Truth.

Virtue, neglected long, and trampled down,

Grew stronger in the echo of his name; And, shrinking self-condemned beneath his frown,

The cheek of harlotry grew red with shame.

Serene with conscious peace, he strewed his way

With sweet humanities, the growth of love ; Shaping to right his actions, day by day,

Faithful to this world and to that above.

The ghosts of blind belief and hideous crime,

Of spirit-broken loves, and hopes betrayed, That flit


the broken walls of Time, Are by the True Man's exorcisms laid. Blest is his life, who to himself is true, And blest his death—for memory, when he

dies, Comes, with a lover's eloquence, to renew

Our faith in manhood's upward tendencies. Weep for the self-abased, and for the slave, And for God's children darkened with the

smoke Of the red altar--not for him whose grave greener than the mistletoe of the oak.



Bright Lamp of God.
CAN wars and jars, and fierce contention,

Swoln hatred, and consuming envy spring
From piety ?—No, 'tis opinion
That makes the riven heaven with trumpets

And thundering engine murderous balls out-

sling, And send men's groaning ghosts to lower

shade Of horrid hell. This the wide world doth bring

To devastation, makes mankind to fade:
Such direful things doth false religion persuade.

But true religion, sprung from God above,
Is like her fountain—full of charity:
Embracing all things with a tender love,
Full of good will and meek expectancy;
Full of true justice and sure verity,
In heart and voice; free, large, even infinite;
Not wedged in straight particularity,

But grasping all in her vast active spriteBright lamp of God, that men would joy in thy pure light!


Blest that Home where God is felt. 'TWAS early day—and sun-light streamed

Soft through a quiet room,
That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed-

Still, but with nought but gloom :

For there, secure in happy age,

Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page

Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,

On his grey holy hair,
And touched the book with tenderest light,

As if its shrine were there;
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone

With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirits own,

Caụght not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met

His calm benignant eye;
Some ancient promise breathing yet

Of immortality;
Some heart's deep language, where the glow

Of quenchless faith survives;
For every feature said, “I know

Redeemer lives."

And silent stood his children by,

Hushing their very breath Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death :
Silent-yet did not each young breast,

With love and reverence melt?
O! blest be those fair girls—and blest
That home where God is felt.


Believe, thou dark lost Pilgrim, still !
IS not too hard, too high an aim,

Secure, thy part in Christ to claim ;
The sensual instinct to control,
And warm with


fires the soul. Nature will raise up all her strife, Foe to the flesh-abasing life, Loth in a Saviour's death to share, Her daily cross compelled to bear; But grace omnipotent at length Shall arm the saint with saving strength; Through the sharp war with aids attend, And his long conflict sweetly end. Act but the infant's gentle part, Give up to love thy willing heart; No fondest parent's tender breast Yearns like thy God's to make thee blest; Taught its dear mother soon to know, The simplest babe its love can show : Bid bashful, servile fear retire, The task no labour will require.

The sovereign Father, good and kind,
Wants but to have his child resigned ;
Wants but thy yielding heart, no more,
With his rich gifts of grace to store.
He to my soul no anguish brings,
From thy own stubborn will it springs;
That foe but crucify, the bane,-
Nought shalt thou know of frowns or pain.

Shake from thy soul, o'erwhelmed, deprest,
Th’ encumbering load that galls its rest,
That wastes its strength with bondage vain,
With courage break th' enslaving chain !
Let faith exert its conquering power,
Say, in thy fearing, trembling hour,
“Father, thy pitying aid impart!”
'Tis done! a sigh can reach his heart.
Yet if, more earnest plaints to raise,
Awhile his succours he delays;
Though his kind hand thou canst not feel,
The smart let lenient patience heal:
Or if corruption's strength prevail,
And oft thy pilgrim footsteps fail,
Lift for his grace thy louder cries,
So shalt thou cleansed and stronger rise.
If haply still thy mental shade
Deep as the midnight's gloom be made,
On the sure faithful arm divine
Firm let thy fastening trust recline.
The gentlest Sire, the best of friends,
To thee, nor loss nor harm intends ;
Though tost on the most boisterous main,
No wreck thy vessel shall sustain.
Should there remain of rescuing grace
No glimpse, no shadow left to trace,
Hear thy Lord's voice, “ 'Tis Jesus' will’
Believe, thou dark lost pilgrim, still!
Then, thy sad night of terrors past,
Though the dread season long may last,

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