Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

"One there lives whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall;
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!"

ON THE DEATH OF A BROTHER.

THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;

But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the sera

phim’s song!

Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

He

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and

guide;

gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN AND HER SON.

WAKE not, oh mother! sounds of lamentation!
Weep not, oh widow! weep not hopelessly!
Strong is His arm, the Bringer of salvation,
Strong is the Word of God to succor thee!

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him:
Hide his pale features with the sable pall:
Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near 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, oh 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!

WHAT IS RELIGION?

Is it to go to church today,
To look devout and seem to pray,
And ere tomorrow's sun goes down
Be dealing slander through the town?

Does every sanctimonious face
Denote the certain reign of grace?
Does not a phiz that scowls at sin
Oft veil hypocrisy within?

Is it to take our daily walk,

And of our own good deeds to talk,
Yet often practice secret crime,
And thus misspend our precious time?

Is it for sect and creed to fight,
To call our zeal the rule of right,
When what we wish is, at the best,
To see our church excel the rest?

A juvenile production.

Is it to wear the Christian dress,
And love to all mankind profess,
To treat with scorn the humble poor,
And bar against them every door?

Oh, no! religion means not this,
Its fruit more sweet and fairer is,
Its precept's this to others do
As you would have them do to you.

It grieves to hear an ill report,

And scorns with human woes to sport,
Of others' deeds it speaks no ill,
But tells of good, or else keeps still.

And does religion this impart?
Then may its influence fill my heart!
Oh! haste the blissful, joyful day,
When all the world may own its sway.

16

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

Ir is a place where poets crowned
May feel the heart's decaying,-
It is a place where happy saints
May weep amid their praying:
Yet let the grief and humbleness,
As low as silence, languish !
Earth surely now may give her calm
To whom she gave her anguish.

O poets! from a maniac's tongue,
Was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope,
A hopeless hand was clinging!
O men! this man, in brotherhood,
Your weary paths beguiling,