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Reflected on that maiden's brow
Methought its radiance played
Speaking of faith, and hope, and joy,
And love that could not fade.
The bitterness of death was past,
And that bright sabbath, even
One gentle soul found peace on earth,
And one found bliss in heaven.

"He giveth His Beloved Sleep."

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this-
"He giveth His beloved sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,

The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep;
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?-
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith, all undisproved,
A little dust, to overweep,
And bitter memories, to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake.
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away!

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:

But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men, with wailing in your voices!

O delved gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God makes a silence through you all,
And "giveth His beloved sleep."

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it raiseth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead.

"He giveth His beloved sleep."
Yea, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

Comfirmed, in such a rest to keep; But angels say-and through the word I think their happy smile is HEARD

"He giveth His beloved sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the juggler's leap,一
Would now its wearied vision close-
Would childlike on His love repose,

Who "giveth His beloved sleep."

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be,
That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say "not a tear must o'er her fall-
He giveth His beloved sleep."

Flowers and fruit.

Whilst winter scattered snows around,
Within a garden's well fenced bound
Two currant bushes grew,
So much alike in form and size,
That e'en the gardener's practised eyes
Scarcely a difference knew.

When spring appeared, with beams and showers, Reviving all the leafless bower's,

A wondrous change was seen.

One tree adorn'd with flow'rets rare
Of richest red, in bunches fair,

Mingled with softest green.
But when the sultry summer's sun
Withered the flowers one by one
On the admired tree-
No cooling fruit suceeded there,
Nought to repay the gardener's care

Leaves-leaves, alone were seen.

Whilst neath the other's shades of green
Fruit in profusion now was seen,

Pleasing to taste and eye,

Not only welcome to the view;
'Twas wholesome and refreshing too,
Yielding a rich supply.

Thus, in the Church (the Saviour's ground),
Flowers so much alike are found,

We can no difference scan.

It needs the eye of Him who sees,
Of His own planting, which the trees;
And knows what is in man.

Let us not judge by form or face,

By specious talk or outward grace,
But watch for saving fruit.
The Spirit's fruit of faith and love,
And of affections fixed above

Derived from Christ the root.

Many a fair and lovely bough
Which seems to promise brightly now,
May soon be lopped away.
While some that promise little here,
May shortly by the Saviour's care
Refreshing fruit display.

If mine the lot, despised to be
From dangerous praise and notice free,
May I be still content ?
Seeking to cultivate each grace
Whereby I may adorn the place
Wherein my life is spent.

When one who holds communion with the skies
Has fill'd his urn where the pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things:
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings,
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
And tells us whence his treasure is supplied.

I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow,
Their's was the soft tone, and the soundless tread :
Where smitten, hearts were drooping like the willow,
They stood between the living and the dead.

Prayer.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,
Utter'd or unexpress'd;

The motion of a hidden fire
That kindles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh-
The falling of a tear,-
The upward glancing of an eye
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the christian's vital breath-
The christian's native air,
His watchword at the gates of death,
He enters heaven with prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from his ways,
While angels on their wings rejoice,
And say-Behold, he prays!

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Oh, Thou, by whom we come to God!
The Life the Truth-the Way!
The path of prayer thyself hath trod,
Lord, teach us how to pray.

Balak and Balaam.

Upon the hill the Prophet stood;
King Balak in the rocky vale,
Around him, like a fiery flood,
Flashed to the sun his men of mail.

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