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Had they who watched and waited there

Been conscious who was passing by, With what unceasing, anxious care,

Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved with fervency of soul, His power

divine to make them whole! But habit and tradition swayed

Their minds to trust to sense alone; They only hoped the angel's aid;

While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, With power from every pain to free.

Bethesda's pool has lost its power!

No angel, by his glad descent, Dispenses that diviner dower

Which with its healing waters went, But He, whose word surpassed its wave, Is still Omnipotent to save.

And what that fountain once was found,

Religion's outward forms remainWith living virtue only crowned

While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure!

Yet are there who this truth confess,

Who know how little forms avail, But whose protracted helplessness

Confirms the impotent's sad tale; Who, day by day, and year by year, As emblems of his lot


They hear the sounds of life and love,

Which tell the visitant is nigh; They see the troubled waters move,

Whose touch alone might health supply ;

But weak of faith, infirm of will,
Are powerless, helpless, hopeless still.
Saviour! thy love is still the same

As when that healing word was spoke;
Still in thine all-redeeming name

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke.
Oh! be that power, that love displayed !
Help those, whom Thou alone canst aid !



What does


take Bloom from the cheek, and lustre from the eye;

The spirits light and gay,
Unclouded as the summer's bluest sky.

What do years steal away?
The fond heart's idol, Love, that gladdened life;

Friendship, whose calmer sway
We trusted to in hours of darker strife.

What must with Time decay ?
Young Hope's wild dreams, and Fancy's visions bright;

Life's evening sky grows gray,
And darker clouds prelude Death's coming night.

But not for such we mourn !
We know them frail, and brief their date assigned ;

Our spirits are forlorn,
Less from Time's thefts, than what he leaves behind.

What do years leave behind ?
Unruly passions, impotent desires,

Distrusts and thoughts unkind,
Love of the world, and self—which last expires.

For these, for these we grieve ;
What Time has robbed us of we know must go :

But what he deigns to leave,
Not only finds us poor, but keeps us so.

It ought not thus to be;
Nor would it, knew we meek Religion's sway;

Her votary's eye could see
How little Time can give, or take away.

Faith, in the heart enshrined,
Would make Time's gifts enjoyed and used, while lent;

And all it left behind,
Of Love and Grace, a noble monument.




God is not great because omnipotent !

But because power in Him is understood And felt, and proved to be benevolent,

And wise, and holy ;-thus it ever should !

For what He wills we know is pure and good, And has in view the happiness of all :

Hence love and adoration :-never could
The contrite spirit at his footstool fall,
If power, and power alone, its feelings did appal!
If then divinest power be truly so,

Because its proper object is to bless;
It follows, that all power which man can know,

The highest even monarchs can possess,

Displays alone their “ less than littleness," Unless it seek the happiness of man

And glory of the Highest ;-nothing less Than such a use of power one moment can Make its possessor great, on wisdom's Godlike plan. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

This Christian poet was born at Nottingham, in 1785. He was apprenticed to a hosier, and afterwards articled to a lawyer. But neither of these callings was congenial to his feelings and talents ; and, by the kindness of some friends, he was enabled to enter himself of St. John's College, Cambridge, to study for the Church. Here he obtained several prizes at the public examinations, but they were dearly purchased; incessant study brought him to the grave, in 1807, in the twenty-second year of his age. The writings of Kirke White show that he possessed in an eminent degree the poetical faculties, and his religious and social character endeared him to all his acquaintances. His works, with the interesting memoir of his life and genius by Dr. Southey, have passed through many editions in this country.



Through sorrow's night, and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom,
We, soldiers of an injured King,

Are marching to the tomb.


There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude

Shall sleep the years away.

Our labors done, securely laid

In this our last retreat,
Unheeded o'er our silent dust

The storms of life shall beat.

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Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie ;
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise,

To see its kindred sky.

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These ashes too, this little dust,

Our Father's care shall keep, Till the last angel rise and break

The long and dreary sleep.
Then love's soft dew o'er every eye

Sball shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst

With shouts of endless praise.


AWAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesu's sake;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place.
When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh! where, shall man retire,
T'escape the horrors of his ire ?
'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved’s face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
Thus, while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ;
To Him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.
While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o’erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.
Yet, courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesu's cleansing blood.


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