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Who would not dare to die?

Peace! my proud aim, And hush the wish that knows not what it asks. Await His will, who hath appointed this, With every

other trial. Be that will Done now, as ever. For thy curious search, And unprepared solicitude to gaze On Him—the Unrevealed-learn hence, instead, To temper highest hope with humbleness. Pass thy novitiate in these outer courts, Till rent the veil, no longer separating The Holiest of all—as erst, disclosing A brighter dispensation ; whose results Ineffable, interminable, tend Even to the perfecting thyself—thy kindTill meet for that sublime beatitude, By the firm promise of a voice from heaven Pledged to the pure in heart!

ELIZA TOWNSEND.

Abide with Me.
A BIDE with me! Fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens : Lord, with me abide !
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day!
Earth’s joys grow dim ; its glories pass away:
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word;
But as Thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free,
Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me.
Come, not in terrors, as the King of kings;
But kind, and good, with healing in thy wings:
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea,
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!

Thou on my head, in early youth didst smile,
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!

I need thy presence every passing hour :
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be ?
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless :
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy

victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

Hold then thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the

skies :

Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain sha

dows flee; In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!

LYTE.

A Freshly Gathered Lily. HE E was our father's darling,

A bright and happy boy-
His life was like a summer's day

Of innocence and joy;
His voice, like singing waters,

Fell softly on the ear,
So sweet, that hurrying echo

Might linger long to hear.
He was our mother's cherub,

Her life's untarnished lightHer blessed joy by morning,

Her visioned hope by night:
His eyes were like the day beams

That brighten all below;
His ringlets like the gathered gold

Of sunset's gorgeous glow.
He was our sister's plaything,

A very child of glee,
That frolicked on the parlor floor,

Scarce higher than our knee;
His joyous bursts of pleasure

Were wild as mountain wind; His laugh, the free unfettered laugh

Of childhood's chainless mind.

He was our brothers' treasure,

Their bosom's only prideA fair depending blossom

By their protecting side:

A thing to watch and cherish,

With varying hopes and fears To make the slender, trembling reed

Their staff for future years.
He is—a blessed angel,

His home is in the sky;
He shines anong those living lights,

Beneath his Maker's eye:
A freshly gathered lily,

A bud of early doom,
Hath been transplanted from the earth,
To bloom beyond the tomb.

CATHERINE ESLING.

A Noon-Day Hymn. UP

to the throne of God is borne

The voice of praise at early morn; And He accepts the punctual hymn, Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will He turn his ear aside From holy offerings at noontide; Then, here reposing, let us raise A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light, We need not toil from morn to night; The respite of the mid-day hour Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this our hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot ?
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to heaven! the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run:
He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the east,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide from thy love's abundant source
What yet remains of this day's course.

Help with thy grace through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Autumn Sabbath Walk. WHEN homeward bands their several ways

disperse, I love to linger in the narrow field Of rest; to wander round from tomb to tomb, And think of some who silent sleep below.

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