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Oh, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! While the anthems of rapture unceasingly And then the glad morn soon to follow that roll, night,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the When the sunrise of glory shall beam on my soul?
sight, When the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise That heavenly music! what is it I hear? To shout in the morning, shall peal through The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my the skies!
And see, soft unfolding, those portals of gold; Who,who would live alway, away from his God, The King, all arrayed in his beauty, behold! Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Oh give me, oh give me the wings of a dove! Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the Let me hasten my fight to those mansions bright plains,
above; And the noon-tide of glory eternally reigns; Ay, 'tis now that my soul on swift pinions Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
would soar, Their Savior and brethren transported to And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. greet;
WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG.
“From under the boughs in the snow-clad wood
The merle and mavis are peeping.”
CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS. OSROM under the boughs in the snow-clad The merle and mavis are peeping. wood
Alike secure from the wind and the flood,
Yet a silent Christmas keeping.
Still happy are they,
And their looks are gay,
Since berries bright red
Hang over their head,
Haps many a tender greeting;
Though winter hath come
To his woodland home,
For 'neath the light snow
Is the fruit-fraught bough.
For they dream of spring,
And the songs they'll sing,
And mindful are they
Which have brought them to-day
The wonders of all-ruling Brandence ;
Ile jingue that & from celestial Merry flow; Efnbak banuty, perfect wullinu,
Ennable and refine the native glow The fock fuelo
and thence his best resource
THE BIBLE. 'HE Bible is the treasure of the poor, the solace of the rich, and the support of the
dying; and while other books may amuse and instruct us in a leisure hour, it is the peculiar triumph of the Bible to create light in the midst of darkness, to alleviate the
sorrow which admits of no other alleviation, to direct a beam of hope to the heart which no other topic of consolation can reach; while guilt, despair, and death vanish at the touch of its holy inspiration.
When I soar through tracts unknown,
AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADY.
Above the crowd,
To bathe in yon bright cloud,
'Twere heaven indeed
On nature's charms to feed,
THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.
What seek ye from the fields of heaven?
Ye have no need of prayer,
Why perch ye here,
Can your pure spirits fear
Ye never knew
Penance is not for you,
To you 'tis given
Beneath the arch of heaven
Then spread each wing
And join the choirs that sing
Or, if ye stay
Teach me the airy way,
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. HE admiration of former times.is a feeling at first, perhaps, engrafted on our minds by the regret of those who vainly seek in the evening of life for the sunny tints which adorned their morning landscape; and who are led to fancy a deterioration in
surrounding objects, when the change is in themselves, and the twilight in their own powers of perception. It is probable that as the age of the individual or of the species is subject to its peculiar dangers, so each has its compensating advantages; and that the difficulties which, at different periods of time, have impeded the believer's progress, to heaven, though in appearance equally various, are, in amount, very nearly equal. * Had we lived in the times of the infant Church, even amid the blaze of miracle on one hand, and the chastening fire of persecution on the other, we should have heard, perhaps, no fewer complaints of the cowardice and apostasy, the dissimulation and murmuring inseparable from a continuance of public distress and danger, than we now hear regrets for those days of wholesome affliction, when the mutual love of believers was strengthened by the common danger; when their want of worldly advantages disposed them to regard a release from the world with far more hope than apprehension, and compelled the Church to cling to her Master's cross alone for comfort and succor.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
(Inscribed to Robert Aikin, Esq., of Ayr.)
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
pose ; No mercenary bard his homage pays;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end; This night his weekly moil is at an end, My dearest meed a friend's esteem and Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his praise.
hoes, To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; homeward wend. What Aikin in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier At length his lonely cot appears in view, there I ween.
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; through,
The shortening winter day is near a close; To meet their dad, wi' flichterin noise and The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;