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Peace! peace! behold the Martyr's brow serene,
He would not change with thee for lengthen'd life!* But, hark! a woman's shriek! and in his mien,
There is a fearful, momentary strife,
'Twixt earthly love, and that for which he dies: 'Tis past he prays, and upward casts his eyes.
And what sustains him in an hour like this?
How knows he, he shall reach the wish'd for goal?
Yea, and his crown is sure! but now we turn
Tempted, and tried, and compass'd round with cares.
The world's allurements spread before their view,
Therefore, fear not!" ye of the "little flock!"
The saints' high faith your watchword and your shield,
Your feet fixed firmly on the Living Rock,
Fear not! no power on earth shall make you yield.
* Heb. xi. 1.
+1 John v. 4..
THE PARSONAGE GARDEN.
WITHIN these walls has much been done, and much has been
For each successor makes a change in what the last had traced, Old fashioned plants and flowers are thrown aside in high
And dwellers next to these perhaps will alter it again.
When the grave old friars went two and two along the broad straight walks ;,
When the orange lily and the flag upreared their stately stalks,
Q they little thought, as side by side, with sleek and sober pace,
But if their gambols and their joy those grave old friars could
They would hardly give those children dear their "Benedicite."
They would look askance at once trim beds, where double daisies stood,
And groan to find them fill'd with, docks and blue-bells from the wood,
Where the owners delve with might and main in gravel, mould, and clay;
And give their minds to that hard work and toil, that boys call play.
They would look askance at the arbour nigh, where haply they might see
A student grave with a dimpled cheek and a book upon his knee;
A-reading of Aladdin's Lamp, or famous Robin Hood.
Of simple Susan and her lamb, or the Children in the Wood.
Perhaps where green the terrace bank slopes downward to the
Where to her school the mistress now doth every morning pass;
Or where the nurse walks up and down with children at her knees,
Grew beds of borage long ago to feed the Friar's bees.
Perhaps where this young sycamore waves lightly over-head,
And makes themselves a name on earth that never should decay.
O! well for us that little more doth of their works remain !
PSALM LXXXVI. 4.
THERE was a tenseness on my heart,
A tenseness on my brow,
And such a weight of sorrow deep
I was indeed cast low.
But when I prayed, oh! then there came
Such a soft and gentle gleam,
As chased away my might.
And then I felt my brow was smooth,
My heart again had rest,
And all within was peace and calm,
In my poor troubled breast.
And this it was that gave me strength
Thou mad'st me feel, my gracious Lord,
E. L. A.