We have the promise of th' eternal truth,
Those who live well, and pious paths pursue,
To man and to their Maker true;
Let them expire in age or youth,
Can never miss

Their way to everlasting bliss;
But from a world of misery and care,
To mansions of eternal ease repair;
Where joy in full perfection flows,
And in an endless circle moves

Through the vast round of beatific love,
Which no cessation knows.

No, 't is in vain to seek for bliss,

For bliss can ne'er be found

'Till we arrive where Jesus is, And tread on heav'nly ground.

John Pomfret.

When we have slept that dreamless sleep,
Which dearest hearts must sever;

O may we wake no more to weep,
But live in bliss for ever.

True bliss, the flower of Paradise,
Lives not in this ungenial clime;
It blossoms in celestial skies,

Beyond the ravages of time;
The joy to christian pilgrims given,
Is but the rich perfume of heaven.

True bliss, the flower of Paradise,
Why seek it here below?

Watts.

John Linden.

W. J. Brock.

It groweth only 'neath those skies
With love divine that glow.
Warmed by the sun of righteousness,
And watered by the dews
Of mercy, and redeeming grace,
How lively are its hues!

In heaven, an amaranthine flower,
On earth, it blossoms but an hour.

Egone.

BLINDNESS.

THE Lord openeth the eyes of the blind.--Psalm cxlvi. 8.

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened.-Isaiah, xxxv. 5.

He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind.-Luke, iv. 18.

Having the understanding darkened, being alienated from the life of God through the ignorance that is in them, because of the blindness of their heart.-Ephesians, iv. 18.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask: but patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's works, or his own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly, thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve, who only stand and wait."

Milton.

There is a poor Blind Man, who every day,
In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,
Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane,
Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,
To kneel before his Maker, and to hear
The chanted service pealing full and clear.

Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels
Through the long year? Oh! the wide world is cold,

As dark to him; here, he no longer feels

His sad bereavement-Faith and Hope uphold His heart-he feels not he is poor and blind, Amid the unpitying tumult of mankind:

As thro' the aisles the choral anthems roll, His soul is in the choirs above the skies, And songs, far off, of angel companies.

Oh! happy, if the Rich-the Vain-the Proud-
The plumed Actors in life's motley crowd,-
Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,-

Would learn one Lesson from a poor Blind Man. Lisle Bowles.

I

see, and yet I see not; outward things
Are visible unto me: I behold

The fresh, cool verdure of succeeding springs;
The glories of the summer manifold;

The forests rich with their autumnal gold;
The creatures beautiful, that spread their wings
In the warm sunshine; blossoms that unfold
Bright as man's hopes and vain imaginings.
The glories of the universe are spread

Before me, and I see them with delight:
Yet am I blind of heart, and cold, and dead
To spiritual things. God grant me light
To understand, and warmth to feel, and grace
Thy message to receive-Thy wondrous power to trace.
Egone.

But in God's temple the great lamp is out, And he must worship glory in the dark! Till death, in midnight mystery, hath brought The veiled soul's re-illuminating sparkThe pillar of the cloud enfolds the Ark! And, like a man that prayeth underground In Bethlehem's rocky shrine, he can but mark The lingering hours by circumstance and sound, And break, with gentle hymns, the solemn silence round.

Yet still life's better light shines out above!
And in that village church, where first he learned
To bear his cheerless doom, for heaven's dear love,
He sits, with wistful face, for ever turned
To hear of those who heavenly pity earned;
Blind Bartimeus, and him desolate,

Who for Bethesda's waters vainly yearned:
And only sighs, condemned so long to wait,
Baffled and helpless still; beyond the Temple gate!
Mrs. Norton.

BLOOD.

AND Moses took the blood, and sprinkled it on the people, and said, Behold the blood of the covenant, which the Lord hath made with you.-Exodus, xxiv. 8.

Deliver me from blood-guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness.-Psalm li. 14.

By the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy prisoners out of the pit.-Zechariah, ix. 11.

God hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth.--Acts, xvii. 26.

Neither by the blood of goats and calves, but by his own blood, he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us.-Hebrews, ix. 12.

Almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission.-Hebrews, ix. 22.

The blood of Jesus Christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin.-I. John, i. 7.

STRANGE is it that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, poured all together,
Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off
In difference so mighty.
Shakspere.

Ye Sacred Writings! on whose antique leaves
The wondrous deeds of heaven recorded lie,
Say what might be the cause, that mercy heaves
The dust of sin above the starry sky,
And lets it not in dust and ashes fly?
Could Justice be of sin so over-wooed,
Or so great ill because of so great good,

That, bloody man to save, man's Saviour shed his blood.

Giles Fletcher.

O, thou great Power! in whom we move,
By whom we live, to whom we die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie,
And cleanse my sordid soul within
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.
No hallowed oils, no gums I need,
No new-born drams of purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed

Was world's of seas to quench thine ire:
O, precious ransom! which once paid,
The Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more,
But sealed it with his sacred breath:
Thou, then, thus hast dispurged our score,
And dying wert the death of death;
Be now, whilst on thy name we call,
Our life, our strength, our joy, our all.

Sir Henry Wotton.

Stretched on the cross, the Saviour dies,
Hark! his expiring groans arise!
See, how the sacred crimson tide
Flows from his hands, his feet, his side.
But life attends the deathful sound,
And flows from every bleeding wound;
The vital stream, how free it flows,
To save and cleanse his rebel foes!
Lord! didst thou bleed? for sinners bleed?
And could the sun behold the deed?
No! he withdrew his sickening ray,
And darkness veiled the mourning day.

There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;

O may I there, though vile as he,
Wash all my sins away!

Dear dying Lamb! thy precious blood
Shall never lose its power,

Till all the ransomed church of God
Be saved, to sin no more.

Not all the blood of beasts
On Jewish altars slain,

Could give the guilty conscience peace,
Or wash away the stain.

But Christ the heavenly Lamb,
Takes all our sins away;

A sacrifice of nobler name,
And richer blood than they.

G

Steele.

Cowper.

Watts.