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THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER.

101

Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by

Atonement

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine

cup.

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his

bosom,

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father!

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?" Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the

children

Yes! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due suppli

cations,

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and

anthem;

O! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us! Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his

eyelids,

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols.

O! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of

mid-day,

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the

churchyard

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver.

But in the children, (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth,

and above it

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the

Redeemer.

Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds

Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple.

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces,

Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely,

Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of

blessing,

Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he, }
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He

goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

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Toiling, rejoicing,

sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,

Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

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It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes

Of him, who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,

No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

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Responds, as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long!"

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