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Kingbom Come.

I Do not believe the sad story

Of ages of sleep in the tomb,
I shall soar far away to the glory,

And grandeur of "Kingdom Come:"
Though the paleness of death and its stillness,

May rest on my brow for awhile,
And my spirit may lose in its dullness

The splendour of hope's happy smile:

Yet the gloom of the grave will be transient,

And light as the slumbers of earth—
And then I shall blend with the ancient

And beautiful forms of the earth:
Through the climes of the sky, and the bowers

Of bliss, evermore I shall roam,
Seeing crowns of the stars and the flowers

That glitter in " Kingdom Come."

The friends who have parted before me,

From life's gloomy sorrow and pain,
When the shadow of death passes o'er me,

Shall smile on me sweetly again;
Their voices are lost in the soundless

Retreats of their azure home—
But soon we shall meet in the boundless

Effulgence of "Kingdom Come!"

Otway Curry.

The happy arrangement of words makes one of the greatest beauties of discourse.

frripta fonnet.

Correct me: but not with anger, lest thou bring me to nothing."— x. 24.

We need not ask for suffering: when its test

Comes, we may prove too faithless to endure—

We need not ask for suffering :—it were hest
We wait God's holy orderings to ensure

Our highest good. But we may ask from Him
That not one throb of grief, one dart of pain,
One burning pang of anguish, pierce in vain

This feeble being, in its faith so dim,

This fainting frame, or this o'erburthened heart:
We may implore Him. He would grace impart

And strength, to suffer still as the beloved
Of His own bosom. For of all below,
The one affliction in this world of woe

Most sad,—is an affliction unimproved.

A. W. Maun.

Some favourite studies—some delightful care,
The mind with trouble and distresses share;
And by a coin, a flower, a verse, a boat,
The stagnant spirits have been made to float.

Crabbe.

Alas! a deeper test of Faith,

Than prison cell or martyr's stake,

The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.

J. G. W.

BY THOMAS HOPE.

Distant plans of daring pride,
Views remote of wild romance,
Whose perspective vast and wide,
Could my youthful soul entrance;
Trophies which I meant to raise,
Regions where I hoped to rove,
Schemes of pleasure and of praise,
Which my early fancy wove.
Where the Pole's resistless chill,
Bids the ocean's self stand still,
Or the tropic's fellest sun,
Man compels his shafts to shun,
You I cherished so before,
I must cherish you no more!
The Niagara's foaming fall,
China's everlasting wall;
Chimborazo's snowy top,
Which appears the sky to prop,
Hoary Hecla's watery spires;
Raging Etna's rolling fires;
Torneo's sun whose glimmering light,
Half a year still haunts the sight;
Towering Thibet's lofty plain,
Which conglomerate mounds sustain;
Sacred Ganges' secret source;
Niger's unexplored course;
Hapless Park's unravelled dream,
Quenched forever in its stream;
Deep Ellora's sculptured caves,

Adieu To Youth.

Desert Memphis's gorgeous graves, Phile's Isle, whose ruins smile, In the mirror of the Nile; Peaceful Cashmere's flowery vale, Hallowed scene of Eastern tale; Georgia, where God's noblest creature, Shows his noblest form and feature; Mecca's house, Medina's shrine, Shiraz, flushed with rosy wine. Bold achievements, noble feats, Whose emprise man's wonder greets; Whose success e'en glads his ghost, You I ne'er must hope to boast. By the foolish vulgar throng, Both detained, and dragged along, After things just born to die, Made to join the vulgar cry. In the toil of each dull day, My best years have passed away; Till, approaching fast my wane, Winter claims my worn out brain Tales that used my soul t' inspire, Now I hear with calmness told; Sights that set my blood on fire, Now that torpid blood leave cold; Slow and tedious is my pace, And no longer dare I hope, Vigour, while I run the race, Pleasure, when I reach the scope. Then adieu, once dazzling dreams, Leave oh! leave my haunted mind, Weary of its brilliant schemes, To an humbler fate resigned; Simpler tasks my toil demand,

Adieu To Youth.

Nearer objects claim my care,
Higher duties for my hand,
Humbler labours fast prepare.
These with honour to achieve,
And a virtuous race to leave,
When, in everlasting rest,
And, perchance among the blest,
I this globe's vain joys deride,
Henceforth by my only pride.

"Man shall not live by bread aioftfl."

Yet evermore, through years renewed

In undisturbed vicissitude,

Of seasons balancing their flight

On the swift wings of day and night,

Kind nature keeps a heavenly door,

Wide open for the scattered poor,

Where flower-breathed incense, to the skies

Is wafted in mute harmonies:

And ground fresh cloven by the plough,

Is fragrant with a humbler vow:

Where birds and brooks from leafy dells

Chime forth unwearied canticles;

And vapours magnify and spread

The glory of the sun's bright head:

Still constant in her worship, still

Conforming to the Almighty's will,

Whether men sow or reap the fields,

Her admonitions nature yields:

That not by bread alone wo live,

Or what a hand of flesh can give:

That every day should leave some part

Free, for a Sabbath of the heart:

So shall the Seventh be truly blest,

From morn to eve with hallowed rest!

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