Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land From whose soft side she first did issue make; She tastes all places, turns to every hand,

Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake.

Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry
As that her course doth make no final stay,
Till she herself unto the sea doth marry,

Within whose watery bosom first she lay.

E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould,
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because, at first, she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views,

At first, her mother earth she holdeth dear,

And doth embrace the world and worldly things; She flies close by the ground, and hovers here, And mounts not up, with her celestial wings;

Yet, under heaven, she cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth,

Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find? Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health? Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind?

Then, as a bee, which among weeds doth fall,

Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay, She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,

But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away –

So, when the soul finds here no true content,

And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take, She doth return from whence she first was sent, And flies to Him that first her wings did make.

AFFLICTION'S TEACHINGS.

Ir aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks
(Making us pry into ourselves so near)
Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books,
Or all the learnéd schools that ever were.

She within lists my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I will not go:
Myself am centre of my circling thought:
Only myself I study, learn, and know.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span ;
I know my sense is mocked in every thing;
And, to conclude, I know myself a man,

Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

Reginald Heber.

1783-1826.

GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW.

Lo! the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!

Hark to Nature's lesson given

By the blessed birds of Heaven.
Every bush and tufted tree

Warbles sweet philosophy,

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow: God provideth for the morrow!

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Say, with richer crimson glows

The kingly mantle than the rose?

Say, have kings more wholesome fare

Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily, -

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

“One there lives whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall ;
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!"

ON THE DEATH OF A BROTHER.

THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;

But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim’s song!

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and

guide;

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN AND HER SON.

WAKE not, oh mother! sounds of lamentation !
Weep not, oh widow! weep not hopelessly!
Strong is His arm, the Bringer of salvation,
Strong is the Word of God to succor thee!

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him
Hide his pale features with the sable pall:
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him:
Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause

:

the mourners ? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed? "Set down the bier he is not dead but sleeping!

'Young man, arise!" He spake, and was obeyed!