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Thy Father could

Quickly effect what thou dost move;
For he is power: and sure he would;
For he is love.

Go search this thing:

Tumble thy breast, and turn thy book;
If thou hadst lost a glove or ring,

Wouldst thou not look?

What do I see

Written above there?

"Yesterday

I did behave me carelessly,

When I did pray."

And should God's ear

To such indifferents chained be,
Who do not their own motions hear?
Is God less free?

But stay! what's there?

"Late, when I would have something done, I had a motion to forbear;

Yet I went on."

And should God's ear,

Which needs not man, be tied to those
Who hear not him, but quickly hear
His utter foes?

Then once more pray;

Down with thy knees, up with thy voice; Seek pardon first, and God will say,

"Glad heart, rejoice!"

GEORGE HERBERT.

She is not Dead, but Sleepeth. WITHIN the darkened chamber sat

A proud but stricken form;

Upon her vigil-wasted cheeks

The grief-wrung tears were warm ; And faster streamed they as she bent Above the couch of pain,

Where lay a withering flower that wooed
Those fond eyes' freshening rain.

The raven tress on that young brow
Was damp with dews of death;
And glassier grew her upraised eye
With every fluttering breath.
Coldly her slender fingers lay

Within the mourner's grasp;

Lightly they pressed that fostering hand, And stiffened in its grasp.

Then low the mother bent her knee, And cried in fervent prayer— "Hear me, O God! mine own, my child,

Oh, holy Father, spare!

My loved, my last, mine only one—
Tear her not yet away;

Leave this crushed heart its best, sole joy :

Be merciful, I pray!"

A radiance lit the maiden's face,
Though fixed in death her eye;
A smile had met the angel's kiss
That stole her parting sigh!

And round her cold lips still that smile
A holy brightness shed,

As though she joyed her sinless soul
To Him who gave had fled.

The mother clasped the senseless form,
And shrieked in wild despair,
And kissed the icy lips and cheek,
And touched the dewy hair.

"No warmth- -no life—my child, my child! Oh for one parting word,

One murmur of that lutelike voice,
Though but an instant heard!

"She is not dead-she could not die—

So young, so fair, so pure;

Spare me, in pity spare this blow!

All else I can endure.

Take hope, take peace, this blighted head
Strike with thy heaviest rod;

But leave me this, thy sweetest boon,
Give back my child, O God!"

The suppliant ceased: her tears were stayed;
Hushed were those wailings loud;

A hallowed peace crept o'er her soul;

Her head to earth was bowed

Low as her knee; for as she knelt,
About her, lo! a flood

Of soft, celestial lustre fell—

A form beside her stood.

And slowly then her awe-struck face

And frighted eyes she raised;

Her heart leaped high: those clouded orbs
Grew brighter as she gazed;

For oh! they rested on a shape
Majestic yet so mild,
Imperial dignity seemed blent
With sweetness of a child.

It spake not, but that saintlike smile
Was full of mercy's light,
And power and pity from those eyes
Looked forth in gentle might;
Those angel looks, that lofty mien,
Have breathed without a word-
"Trust, and thy faith shall win thee all :
Behold, I am thy Lord!"

He turns, and on that beauteous clay
His godlike glances rest;
Commandingly the pallid brow
His potent fingers pressed;
The frozen current flows anew
Beneath that quickening hand;
The pale lips, softly panting, move;
She breathes at his command!

The spirit in its kindred realm.
Has heard its Master's call;
And back returning at that voice,
Resumes its earthly thrall.
And now from 'neath those snowy
It shines with meeker light,
As though 'twere chastened, purified,
By even that transient flight.

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Loud swells the mother's cry of joy:
To Him how passing sweet!
Her child she snatches to her breast,
And sinks at Jesus' feet.
"Glory to thee, Almighty God!
Who spared my heart this blow;
And glory to thine only Son-
My Saviour's hand I know!"

ANNA CORA MOWATT.

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Song to the Eternal Wisdom.

THOU eternal Mind! whose wisdom sees, And rules our changes by unchanged decrees; As with delight on thy grave works we look, Say, art thou too with our light follies took? For when thy bounteous hand, in liberal showers Each way diffused, thy various blessings pours, We catch at them with strife, as vain to sight As children, when for nuts they scrambling fight. This snatching at a sceptre, breaks it; he, That broken does ere he can grasp it, see: The poor world seeming like a ball, that lights Betwixt the hands of powerful opposites; Which, while they cantonise in their bold pride, They but an immaterial point divide.

O whilst for wealthy spoils these fight, let me, Though poor, enjoy a happy peace with thee! SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE.

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