HEAVEN ANTICIPATED.

"Knowing in yourselves that ye have in heaven a better and an enduring substance.". -Heb. x. 34.

AH! why this disconsolate frame ?
Though earthly enjoyments decay,
My Jesus is ever the same,

A sun in the gloomiest day.
Though molten awhile in the fire,
'Tis only the gold to refine;
And be it my simple desire,
Though suffering, not to repine.

What can be the pleasure to me,
Which earth, in its fulness, can boast ?
Delusive, its vanities flee,

A flash of enjoyment, at most!
And if the Redeemer could part,

For me, with his throne in the skies,
Ah! why is so dear to my heart

What he, in his wisdom, denies ?

Though riches to others be given,

Their corn and their vintage abound;
Yet, if I have treasure in heaven,
Where should my affections be found?
Why stoop for the glittering sands,
Which they are so eager to share,
Forgetting those wealthier lands,

That form my inheritance there?

Dear Jesus, my feelings refine,
My truant affections recall;
Then, be there no fruit on the vine,
Deserted and empty the stall;
The long-labored olive may die,
The field may no harvest afford;
But, under the gloomiest sky,

My soul shall rejoice in the Lord.

Then let the rude tempest assail,
The blast of adversity blow;
The haven, though distant, I hail,
Beyond this rough ocean of woe;
When, safe on the beautiful strand,
I'll smile at the billows, that foam;
Kind angels to hail me to land,

And Jesus to welcome me home.

TAYLOR.

WHAT IS LIFE?

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth."- Ps. xc. 6.

O, WHAT is life? 'Tis like a flower,

That blossoms, and is gone;

It flourishes its little hour,

With all its beauty on;

Death comes; and, like a wintry day,
It cuts the lovely flower away.

O, what is life? 'Tis like the bow

That glistens in the sky;

We love to see its colors glow,

But while we look they die;

Life fails as soon,-to-day 't is here,-
To-morrow it may disappear.

Lord, what is life? If spent with thee,
In humble praise and prayer,
How long or short our life may be,

We feel no anxious care;

Though life depart, our joys shall last,

When life and all its joys are past.

TAYLOR.

"THE TIME IS SHORT."

1 Cor. vii. 29.

WHETHER We smile or weep,
Time wings his flight;
Days, hours, they never creep;
Life speeds like light.

Whether we laugh or groan,

Seasons change. fast;

Nothing hath ever flown

Swift as the past.

Whether we chafe or chide,
On is Time's pace;
Never his noiseless step

Doth he retrace.

Speeding, still speeding on,

How, none can tell;

Soon will he bear us

To heaven or hell.

Dare not, then, waste thy days,
Reckless and proud;

Lest, while ye dream not,

Time spread thy shroud.

FLEETNESS OF LIFE.

"The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away." Ps. xc. 10.

BEHOLD

How short a span

Was long enough, of old,

To measure out the life of man;

In those well-tempered days, his life was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.

How vain,

How wretched, is

Poor man, that doth remain

A slave to such a state as this;

His days are short at longest, few at most,
They are but bad at best, yet lavished out or lost.

They be

The secret springs

That make our minutes flee

On wheels more swift than eagle's wings.

Our life's a clock; and every gasp of breath Breathes forth a warning grief, till time shall strike a death.

How soon

Our new-born light

Attains to full-aged noon!

And this how soon to gray-haired night!

We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast.

They end

When scarce begun ;

And, ere we apprehend

That we begin to live, our life is done;

Man! count thy days; and, if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last.

QUARLES.