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Thy neighboro Yonder toiling slave,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave,
Whene'er thou meet’st a human form
Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm,
SHE loved her Savior, and to him
To crown his head, or grace his name,
And though the prudent worldling frowned,
Christ's humble friend sweet comfort found,
So let the Savior be adored,
Give to the hungry from your hoard,
The poor are always with us here.
That mutual wants and mutual care
Go. clothe the naked, lead the blind,
For Sorrow’s children comfort find,
But give to Christ alone thy heart,
Then for his sake thine alms impart,
-oBroken-hearted, weep no more.—EPIscopa L WATCH MAN
BRoKEN-HEARTED, weep no more
Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock,
Broken-hearted, weep no more!
The Sweet Brier.—BRAINARD.
OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower, In all the blooming waste it left behind, As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower Wets not a rose that buds in beauty’s bower One half so lovely; yet it grows along The poor É. path-way, by the poor man's door. Such are the simple folks it dwells among; And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.
I love it, for it takes its untouched stand Not in the vase that sculptors decorate; Its sweetness all is of my native land; And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate Among the perfumes which the rich and great Buy from the odors of the spicy East. You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate The little four-leaved rose that I love best, That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?
They say that he again will rise,
That God will bless him in the skies—
“Daughter, do you remember, dear,
And laid upon the casement here.-
I told you that Almighty power
And show you, in a future hour,
look at the chrysalis, my love,
Now raise your wondering glance above,
“O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe
I AM not what I was :
My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; They sprung too early, like the tender grass
That by spring-frost is blasted.
But THou wilt not believe
How very soon my heart-task will be o'er My heart, whose feelings never can deceive,
Is withered at its core.
I know the blight is there,
And trembles every limb,
Yet not a mist of tears.
Thou dost not know, when pale
Of terror sweeps its flood.
O, from the laughing earth,
Save in thy precious heart.
Yet come not when the drear
To bid me live for thee.
But come when I am dead:
Without one passion's trace.
And come thou to my grave: Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn, When lightly in the breeze the willows wave,
And spring's first flowers are born:
Or on a summer’s eve, When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned To crimson in the west, when waters heave
As if they lived and burned,
Or in the solemn night, When there’s a hush upon the heavens and deep, And when the earth is bathed in starry light,
O, come thou there, and weep.