noon, Not marked till missed, so soft it fades, and soon; Yet sprightly as a summer Sabbath morn, A star reflected in a dimpling rill In the long cycles that the years have run, So be thy life, a gentle Sabbath, pure From worthless strivings of the work-day earth; May time make good the omen of thy birth, Nor worldly care thy growing thoughts immure, Nor hard-eyed thrift usurp the throne of mirth Must bring their fated dower of maiden fears, cure; May every day of thine be good and holy, And thy worst woe a pensive Sabbath melancholy! A SUNDAY CHRISTMAS. WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1853, WHICH FELL UPON THE SABBATH. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. PAUL HAMILTON HAVNE, a Southern poet of distinction, was born at Charleston, SC, Jan. 1, 1831. He has published several volumes of verse, and a new one is about to be issued. MYSTERY of mysteries! on this holy morn, While the far heavenly music pealed above. Triumph of triumphs! this auspicious day, Hath merged with solemn wedlock into one, The birth that oped to man the heavenly gate, That birth was marvellous! but strange and grand, More strange and grand was the great Conqueror's rise From the dim confines of the shadowy land, Whose gloom had palsied faith, and dimmed the skies. Thus did the mortal learn immortal trust, Shake from his garment earth's degrading 1853. "BEYOND THE SABBATH." "The Backwoodsmen of North America, when they throw off the forms of society, and retreat into the forests, say they will fly beyond Sabbath.'"- FLINT'S Valley of the Mississippi. The record tree" alluded to in the following stanzas is that upon which early settlers in the Western States of America recorded the passage of time by marking the seventh day. HE flies! He seeks the moaning forest trees, LO, GOD IS HERE! "Gott ist gegenwärtig! lasset uns anbeten." JOHN WESLEY, founder of Methodism, was born at Epworth, June 17, 1703, and was educated at the Charter-house and at Oxford University. He went to Georgia as missionary, and on the way met some Moravians, whose acquaintance caused a change in his views. He began a series of religious efforts which effected a wonderful revival of evangelical religion in England. He translated hymns from the German, French, and Spanish. He died in London, March 2, 1791. Lo, God is here! Let us adore, And own how dreadful is this place! Let all within us feel his power, And silent bow before his face! Who know his power, his grace who prove, Serve him with awe, with reverence love. Lo, God is here! Him day and night The united choirs of angels sing: To him, enthroned above all height, Heaven's hosts their noblest praises bring: Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song, Who praise thee with a stammering tongue! Gladly the toys of earth we leave, Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone: To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give; Oh, take, oh, seal them for thine own! Thou art the God! Thou art the Lord! Be thou by all thy works adored! HENRY F. LYTE. In thee we move; all things of thee Are full, thou source and life of all! Fall prostrate, lost in wonder, fall, And glad drink in the solar fire, So may thy influence us inspire, Thou beam of the eternal beam, Thou purging fire, thou quickening flame! GERHARD TErsteegen, 1731. Translated by JOHN WESLEY, 1739. REFUGE IN THE SANCTUARY. FORTH from the dark and stormy sky, Lord, to thine altar's shade we fly; Forth from the world, its hope and fear, Saviour, we seek thy shelter here: Weary and weak, thy grace we pray; Long have we roamed in want and pain, REGINALD HEBER. 1827. CHURCH WORSHIP. JAMES GRAHAME was born at Glasgow, Scotland, April 22, 1765, and studied law, contrary to his wishes, to gratify his father, who was an attorney. He published the poem by which he is known, "The Sabbath," anonymously, and became very popular. From it the following lines are extracted. The Quarterly Review said that it would always hold its place among those poems that are and deserve to be in the hands of the people. Grahame died Sept. 14, 1811. He had studied for the ministry, and for two years before his death was an ordained minister. BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doomed And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased; These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes The house of God, — these, spite of all their ills, tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise The people rising sing, "With harp, with harp, At every close, the lingering strain prolong. While liquid whispers from yon orphan band No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow: My heart would sing ; and many a Sabbath day From death's dark vale, to walk amid those glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." JAMES GRAHAME. 1804. THE PLEASURES OF PUBLIC WORSHIP. How pleasant, how divinely fair, |