Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing, Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die; Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee throwing Fades, like the crimson from a sunset sky; Life hath but shadows, save a promise given, Which lights the future with a fadeless ray; O, touch the sceptre !-win a hope in Heaven. Come, turn thy spirit from the world away! Then will the crosses of this brief existence Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul;— And, shining brightly in the forward distance, Will of thy patient race appear the goal: Home of the weary!-where, in peace reposing, The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, Though o'er its dust the curtain'd grave is closing, Who would not, early, choose a lot like this? WILLIS G. CLARK. Christmas Beams shall Cheer my Heart. THE shepherds sing, and shall I silent be? My soul's a shepherd too; a flock it feeds The pasture is thy word; the streams thy grace, Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Out-sing the day-light hours. Then we will chide the sun, for letting night We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should Himself the candle hold. I will go searching, till I find a sun A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly, Then we will sing, and shine all our own day, His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine, Till ev'n his beams sing, and my music shine. GEORGE HERBERT. Come back to Me, my Child. THE 'HE foot of Spring is on yon blue-topped mountain, Leaving its green prints 'neath each spreading tree; Her voice is heard beside the swelling fountain, Giving sweet tones to its wild melody. From the warm south she brings unnumbered roses, To greet with smiles the eye of grief and care: Her balmy breath on the worn brow reposes, And her rich gifts are scattered everywhere;— I heed them not, my child. In the low vale the snow-white daisy springeth The golden dandelion by its side: The egglantine a dewy fragrance flingeth To the soft breeze that wanders far and wide. The hyacinth and polyanthus render, From their deep hearts, an offering of love; And fresh May-pinks and half-blown lilacs tender Their grateful homage to the skies above;— I heed them not, my child. In the clear brook are springing water-cresses, And pale green rushes, and fair, nameless flowers; While o'er them dip the willow's verdant tresses, Dimpling the surface with their mimic showers. The honeysuckle stealthily is creeping Round the low porch and mossy cottage-eaves; Oh! Spring hath fairy treasures in her keeping, And lovely are the landscapes that she weaves;— "Tis naught to me, my child. Down the green lane come peals of heartfelt laughter! The school hath sent its eldest inmates forth: And now a smaller band comes dancing after, Filling the air with shouts of infant mirth. At the rude gate the anxious dame is bending, To clasp her rosy darlings to her breast; Joy, pride, and hope, are in her bosom blending; Ah! peace with her is no unusual guest ;— Not so with me, my child. All the day long I listen to the singing Of the gay birds and winds among the trees; But a sad under-strain is ever ringing, A tale of death and its dread mysteries. For thy glad voice my spirit inly pineth, Longing to lay my dust beside thine own; Oh, cast the mantle of thy presence o'er me! Beloved, leave me not so deeply lone ;Come back to me, my child! Upon that breast of pitying love thou leanest, Which oft on earth did pillow such as thou, Nor turned away petitioner the meanest : Pray to Him, sinless-he will hear thee now. Plead for thy weak and broken-hearted mother; Pray that thy voice may whisper words of peace; Her ear is deaf, and can discern no other; Speak, and her bitter sorrowings shall cease Come back to me, my child! Come but in dreams-let me once more behold thee, As in thy hours of buoyancy and glee, And one brief moment in my arms enfold theeBeloved, I will not ask thy stay with me. Leave but the impress of thy dove-like beauty, Which Memory strives so vainly to recall, And I will onward in the path of duty, Restraining tears that ever fain would fall;— Come but in dreams, my child! JULIA H. SCOTT. Christ the Purifier. HE that from dross would win the precious ore, Bends o'er the crucible an earnest eye, The subtle searching process to explore, Lest the one brilliant moment should pass by, When in the molten silver's virgin mass He meets his pictured face as in a glass. Thus in God's furnace are his people tried; Thrice happy they who to the end endure : But who the fiery trial may abide ? Who from the crucible come forth so pure? That Hewhose eyes of flame look through the whole, May see his image perfect in the soul? Nor with an evanescent glimpse alone, But, stampt with Heaven's broad signet, there be shown Immanuel's features full of truth and grace. And round that seal of love this motto be, "Not for a moment, but eternity!" JAMES MONTGOMERY. |