I am Weary.

I AM weary of straying-O fain would I rest,
In the far distant land of the pure and the blest;
Where sin can no longer her blandishments spread,
And tears and temptations for ever have fled.

I am weary of hoping-where the hope is untrue:
As fair, but as fleeting as morning's bright dew;
I long for that land whose blest promise alone
Is changeless and sure as eternity's throne.

I am weary of sighing o'er sorrows of earth,

O'er joys glowing visions that fade at their birth;
O'er the pangs of the loved, that we cannot assuage;
O'er the blightings of youth, and the weakness of age.

I am weary of loving what passes away-
The sweetest, the dearest, alas! may not stay;

I long for that land where these partings are o'er,
And death and the tomb can divide hearts no more.

I am weary, my Saviour, of grieving thy love;
O! when shall I rest in thy presence above?

I am weary-but O! let me never repine,

While thy word, and thy love, and thy promise are mine.

ANONYMOUS

A Prayer in Sickness.

SEND down thy winged angel, God!

Amid this night so wild;

And bid him come where now we watch,

And breathe upon our child!

She lies upon her pillow, pale,

And moans within her sleep,
Or wakeneth with a patient smile,
And striveth not to weep.

How gentle and how good a child

She is, we know too well,

And dearer to her parents' hearts,

Than our weak words can tell.

We love we watch throughout the night,

To aid, when need may be;

We hope and have despair'd, at times;

But now we turn to Thee!

Send down thy sweet-soul'd angel, God!

Amid the darkness wild,

And bid him soothe our souls to-night,

And heal our gentle child!

BARRY CORNWALL.

O LIFT up the banner on high o'er the mountain,
Let the trumpet be loud, and the cimeter keen,
For Babel shall fall as a drop from the fountain,

And leave not a trace where her glories have been!

The prince from his hall, and the serf from his labour,
Shall gird on their mail and wave high the war-sword;
But the hand shall relax from its grasp of the sabre,
And the heart shall grow faint in the wrath of the Lord.

The moon in her light, and the sun in his splendour,
Shall hide their pure ray from the proud city's fall,
While thick clouds of mist and of darkness attend her,
And night wraps her streets like a funeral pall.

For the Medes from the north like a whirlwind shall gather,
And Babylon yield to the might of the brave;
While the young blooming bride, and the gray-headed father,
Shall lay their heads low in the dust of the grave.

Her halls shall be still, and her pavement be gory,
Not a sound heard of mirth or of revelling there;
But the pride of the Chaldees, the boast of their glory,
Extinguish'd like Sodom, be blasted and bare.

On the spot where thou raisest thy front, mighty nation, Shall the owl have his nest, and the wild beast his den; Thy courts shall be desert, thy name DESOLATION,

Now the tyrant of cities, the jest of them then.

WOODS.

Slowly THE LAST CRUSADER eyed

The towers, the mount, the stream, the plain,

And thought of those whose blood had dyed
The earth with crimson streams in vain!