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THE MIDNIGHT CRY.

"And at midnight there was a cry made."-Matt. xxv. 6. READER, if thou art young or old,

This truth thou scarcely need'st be told,—
It is appointed all must die;

All, all must hear the midnight cry.

And art thou trifling time away,
Thoughtless, indifferent, and gay;
Drinking the cup of pleasure dry,
Regardless of the midnight cry?
Art thou immers'd in earthly cares,
Neglectful of thy soul's affairs;
Resolv'd the thoughts of death to fly,
Nor meditate the midnight cry?

Art thou intent on this world's gain,
Anxious its honors to obtain ?

What will they profit by and by,

When thou shalt hear the midnight cry?

Art thou to scepticism inclin'd,
Unstable, and of double mind;

More willing to believe a lie
Than to expect the midnight cry?

Art thou an infidel avow'd,
Presumptuous, blasphemous, and proud?
Wilt thou eternal truth deny,
Convicted by the midnight cry?

Dost thou the Saviour's name profess,
A stranger to his righteousness?
How wilt thou meet his piercing eye,
When summon'd by the midnight cry?
Art thou to sov'reign grace oppos'd,
To quarrel with God's plan dispos'd?
Wilt thou against Him still reply,
Till silenc'd by the midnight cry?"
Art thou a boasting Pharisee,
Puff'd up with self-sufficiency?
Wilt thou upon thy works rely,
For safety at the midnight cry?

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FROM SCHOOL TO THE WORLD.

FAREWELL to the friends of my mirth-flowing-hours,

To those scenes where I've danced in the wildness of joy;
Farewell to my dreams of Arcadian bowers;

Far busier thoughts my mind must employ.

My grammar and lexicon laid on one side,

And the rules and results of square and cube root;
My Homer and Virgil no longer my pride,
Even eloquent Cicero now must be mute.
To the world I am going my fortune to try,
In some trade or profession best suited for me;
And my parents and teachers heave many a sigh,
Lest I should be lost on folly's wide sea.
But can it be true that the world is a snare,
A wildering maze as my teachers suppose;
That the youth who adventures incautiously there,
Will lament when too late the loss of repose?
And is there no guide who will show me the way?
O yes, and the suppliant knee will I bend,
To Him who has guarded each infantile day,
For I know that his ear he will graciously lend.
My Father, I'll cry, be the Guide of my youth,
O lead and preserve in the heavenly road,
Illumine my way by the light of thy truth,
Nor allow me to roam from my Saviour and God.
And when in the hoar vale of age I repose,
Where the butterfly lights with too heavy a wing;
Where the minstrel in vain shall sweet music compose,
I shall hear not his voice though melodious he sing.
When the bright beams of morning enkindle the sky,
And these eyelids awake to its beauty no more;
When the rose-bud in vain shall unfold its deep dye,
Nor I gaze on its tints as I oft did before.

Oh! then looking back on the years that have fled,
May I bow at His footstool who guided my youth;
Who through the lone wilderness gently has led,
And cheer'd my dark way by the light of his truth.
And when on the pillow of death I recline,
May the cross of my Saviour, the smile of his love,
Shed a light on my soul, till with rapture divine
I wake in effulgence of glory above.

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