And the fold of his love he has left alone, To account for its care to God, His honour'd head lies low, And his thoughts of power are done, And his voices manly flow, And his pen that, for truth, like a sword was drawn, It still and soulless now. The brave old man is gone! With his armour on he fell; Nor a groan nor a sign was drawn, When his spirit fled, to tell; For mortal sufferings, keen and long, Had no power his heart to quell. The good old man is gone! And no trouble can molest; For his crown of life is won, And the dead in Christ are blessed! GEORGE W. DOANE. Her lowly Gift was Witnessed. Of rich adorers, came a humble form; A widow, meek as poverty doth make Then timidly as bashful twilight, stole To goodness:-so He blessed the Widow's Mite Unnoticed, like the trodden flowers which fall The Life of the Blessed. REGION of life and light! Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er! Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore! There, without crook or sling, Walks the Good Shepherd; blossoms white and red Round his meek temples cling; And, to sweet pastures led, His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. He guides, and near him they He leads them to the height And where his feet have stood, The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, With all his flock around, He witches the still air with numerous sound. From his sweet lute flow forth Immortal harmonies, of power to still All passions born of earth, And draw the ardent will Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. Might but a little part, A wandering breath, of that high melody And change it till it be Transformed and swallowed up, O love! in thee: Released, should take its way To mingle with thy flock, and never stray. LUIS PONCE DE LEON, Trans. by BRYANT. Thou knowest I Love Thee, Dearest Do not I love Thee, O my Lord ?— my And turn each hateful idol out, Do not I love Thee from my soul? Is not thy name melodious still, Doth not each pulse with pleasure bound, Hast Thou a lamb in all thy flock, I would disdain to feed ? Hast Thou a foe before whose face I fear thy cause to plead ? Would not my heart pour forth its blood In honour of thy name? And challenge the cold hand of death Thou knowest I love Thee, dearest Lord; But Oh! I long to soar, Far from the sphere of mortal joys, And learn to love Thee more. DODDRIDGE. The Anchor of Hope. HOPE sets the stamp of vanity on all That men have deemed substantial since the fall, Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe And while she takes, as at a father's hand, Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, Were light, when viewed against one smile of thine. WILLIAM COWPER. |