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My times are in Thy hand!

To Thee I can entrust

My slumb'ring clay 'till Thy command
Bids all the dead before Thee stand,

Awaking from the dust.

Beholding Thee,

What bliss 'twill be

With all Thy saints to spend eternity!

To spend eternity

In Heaven's unclouded light!

From sorrow, sin and frailty free,

Beholding and resembling Thee

Oh, too transporting sight!

Prospect too fair

For flesh to bear,

Haste, haste, my Lord, and soon transport me there.

N. H.

FULL Soon must all these summer birds be gone-
Take to their wings and leave thee, every one.

Chought.

“THERE are rare and precious moments, snatched from the whirl of life, and spent in stillness and alone. Even when not devoted to direct meditation, and appearing too fleeting to be productive of much good, they yet tend to give us a knowledge of the realities that encompass us. By the depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us, that, beneath the surface of this weary, working existence, there is another worldanother and an enduring life-imaged in the unchanging sky, and the returning sun, and the ever renewed beauty of the trees and flowers, and the steadfastness of the everlasting hills and if our hearts are open to the truth, they may sometimes teach us to remember, that, as in far off years, the glorious Temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither axe, nor hammer, nor tool, giving warning or notice of the work -so the more glorious temple-the Church of the living Godis, at this moment, rising unperceived in the midst of a tumultuous world: each stone quarried and fashioned by the sharp edge of sorrow, and the keen stroke of adversity, until, perfected and prepared, it is fitted for that destined position, which shall be the place of its rest for eternity. It does not signify, in the concerns of life, whether we are called upon to rule a kingdom, or pick up stones on the highway, if only what we do is work: work for Him, that shall turn to account in the reckoning of the long day of life: work for Him to whom nothing is great, and therefore nothing can be little."

SPEAK gently!-'tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart's deep well;
The good the joy that it may bring,
Eternity shall tell!

Che Slave Singing at Midnight.

LOUD he sang the psalm of David!
He, a Negro and enslaved;

Sang of Israel's victory,

Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear,
That I could not choose but hear;

Songs of triumph and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast,
Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion,
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen;
And an earthquake's arm of might,
Broke their dungeon gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel,
Brings the slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might,
Breaks his dungeon gates at night?

LONGFELLOW.

Stanzas.

WHEN from life's busy scenes awhile,
Sickness detains with grasp severe,
How soon the faded cheek its smile
Yields for the tear!

Yet most we learn when most alone
And sickness oft the soul hath brought
Where many a heavenly truth is known,
A lesson taught!

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That

In purer stream!

Hope round the darkened couch may bloom, sprung not 'neath the prosperous sun, As night-bloom flowers that cheer the gloom, The sunbeams shun!

Chambers secured from solar glare,

Admit a radiance holier far: Oft on the soul has risen there, Its morning star!

168

WILLIAM PENN.

On earthly joy-that reed so frail,
Too oft alas it dares to lean,
"Till sickness comes, and lifts the veil,
From things unseen!

Shows the vain aim of human cares,

Clears a new course and points the goal-
For life or death alike prepares,

The tutored soul!

William Penn.

ОH surely the hand of the Highest commanded, the fiat of Omnipotence had been spoken, when, on the shores of this western wilderness, stood our great progenitor William Penn ! A name whose very utterance calls forth feelings of veneration and respect, a name linked with our dearest recollections, our brightest reminiscences!

Who can calculate-who can appreciate the value to posterity of such a man? Had ambition fired a Cæsar to come and conquer another world-had madness touched a Napoleon to reach forth over our shores the truncheon of absolute command, how different, how widely different, would have been the issue ! But the Quaker came-the gentle, unadorned, unaspiring Quaker: who, turning from the gaudy trappings of a monarchy, from a land where those of his faith found no resting place, sought, in the wilds of Western America, a refuge, and a home. He came, and the untutored Indian saw not the insignia of the warrior, heard not the words of the conqueror; but they beheld clad in the simplest costume, a form of majestic port, a brow

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