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Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him ; Hide his pale features with the sable pall; Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him,

Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping?
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed ?
"Set down the bier-he is not dead, but sleeping!
Young man, arise!" He spake, and was obeyed!

Change then, O sad one, grief to exultation;
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee.
Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation!
Strong was the Word of God to succor thee.

EPIPHANY.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid.

Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining,
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall;

Angels adore Him in slumber reclining

Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine;

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean;
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation,

Vainly with gold would his favor secure ;

Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid.

MISSIONS.

FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile :

In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high;
Shall we, to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.

Waft, waft ye winds, His story,
And

you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole:
Till o'er our ransomed nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

BERNARD BARTON,

A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, is the author of numerous poems, marked alike by sweetness of versification, and tender and Christian feeling. A collection of Bernard Barton's poems has recently been published, under the title of "Household Verses."

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"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth."-Ps. xc. 6.

I WALKED the fields at morning's prime,

The grass was ripe for mowing;

The skylark sang his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,
His pulse with rapture beating,

Deems life's inheritance is joy-
The future proudly greeting."

I wandered forth at noon :-Alas!
On earth's maternal bosom
The scythe had left the withering grass,
And stretched the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,
Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed,
Through lonely hay-fields musing,

While every breeze that round me played,
Rich fragrance was diffusing.

The perfumed air, the hush of eve,
To purer hopes appealing,

O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve,
Scattered the balm of healing.

For thus "the actions of the just,"

When memory hath enshrined them,

E'en from the dark and silent dust

Their odor leave behind them.

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THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been, On the day of its first dedication,

When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen On high, o'er the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled
To minister standing before Thee,

Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled,
And thy glory made Israel adore Thee;

Though awfully grand was thy majesty then;
Yet the worship thy Gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

And by whom was that ritual forever repealed
But by Him, unto whom it was given

To enter the Oracle, where is revealed,

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven.

Who, having once entered, hath shown us the way,
O Lord! how to worship before Thee;

Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore Thee!

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known,
When she of Samaria found him

By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone,

With the stillness of noontide around Him.

How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught,
To her who inquired by that fountain,
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought,
Or adored on Samaria's mountain!

"Woman! believe me, the hour is near,

When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, Will neither be worshipped exclusively here, Nor yet at the altar of Salem.

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For God is a spirit! and they who aright

Would perform the pure worship He loveth, In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth."

THE POOL OF

BETHESDA.

AROUND Bethesda's healing wave,

Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave
Its virtue to that holy spring,
With patience and with hope endued,
Were seen the gathered multitude.

Among them there was one whose eye
Had often seen the waters stirred;

Whose heart had often heaved the sigh,
The bitter sigh of hope deferred:
Beholding while he suffered on,
The healing virtue given,—and gone!

No power had he; no friendly aid

To him its timely succor brought;
But, while his coming he delayed,

Another won the boon he sought;—
Until the Saviour's love was shown,
Which healed him by a word alone!

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