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With us, no traitorous foe assails,

When Love her home would make;
An angel's welcome never fails;

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Come,' and that warmth partake.

"Time revels 'mid your dearest joys,
Death smites your brightest rose,
And Sin your bower of peace destroys;
Where will ye find repose?
Ye're wearied in your pilgrim race,
Sharp thorns your path infest;
'Come hither,' rise to our embrace,
And Christ shall give you rest."

'Twas thus, at twilight's hallowed hour,
The angels' lay came down,
Like dews upon the sick'ning flower,
When droughts of summer frown:
How sweet, upon the ambient air,
Swelled out their music free!
O, when the pangs of death I bear,
Sing ye that song to me.

Occasional Hymn.-J. PIERPONT.

O THOU, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,

And prophets praised with glowing tongue,

Not now, on Zion's height alone,

Thy favored worshipper may dwell, Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.

From every place below the skies,

The grateful song, the fervent prayer-
The incense of the heart-may rise

To Heaven, and find acceptance there.
In this Thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.

To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair,
And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,

Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,

The lyre of prophet bards was strung, To Thee, at last, in every clime,

Shall temples rise, and praise be sung.

The Sleeper.-COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER.

IT was the spring-time in its earliest hour:

Few blossoms then had of the year been born; The fresh winds whispered to the unfolding flower, Where nestled dews of the unsullied morn: Songs like to Eden's sweetened all the air,

And birds and brooks their hymns together blent; Those in the heavens and these on earth were fair: These midst the flowers, those in their incense went.

My little cousin had been roaming then,

At early dawn, along the upland side;
O'er dewy slope, green lawn, and shaded glen,
Standing by sister blossoms, side by side;
And, wearied with the pleasant tour, returned,
Upon her couch the sinless wanderer lay;
And sleep had won her, with sweet visions, earned
By radiant scenes upon that early day.

Her fair cheek pressed her pillow; in her hair,
Her darkly golden hair, some buds reposed;

And silken lashes, o'er her blue eyes fair,

In a faint glimpse the hue beneath disclosed:

A pure white rose was in her fairy hand;
And, gazing on her with a tearful eye,

"Dear one," I said, "on youth's enchanted land,
Be ever thus, beneath a cloudless sky,

Till, a pure flower of heaven, thou art removed on high.

God's Omnipresent Agency.—CARLOS WILCOX.

How desolate were nature, and how void
Of every charm, how like a naked waste
Of Africa, were not a present God
Beheld employing, in its various scenes,
His active might to animate and adorn!

What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes,
Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work!-
When it is viewed unfolding every bud,
Each blossom tinging, shaping every leaf,
Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky,
Rolling each billow, moving every wing
That fans the air, and every warbling throat
Heard in the tuneful woodlands! In the least,
As well as in the greatest of his works,
Is ever manifest his presence kind;

As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen
Quick to and fro, within a foot of air,
Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more,
As in the systems of resplendent worlds,
Through time revolving in unbounded space.
His eye, while comprehending in one view
The whole creation, fixes full on me;

As on me shines the sun with his full blaze,
While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same.
His hand, while holding oceans in its palm,
And compassing the skies, surrounds my life,
Guards the poor rush-light from the blast of death.

The Farewell.-ANONYMOUS.

"Mea patria, vale!"

"My native land, good night !"—

My native land, adieu, adieu!
My course is o'er the sea:
I sail upon the waters blue,
Far, far away from thee:

Those scenes, to youth and hope so dear,
Which active childhood know,

Demand my last, my parting tear;

My native land, adieu!

My native land, adieu, adien!
My course is o'er the sea:

And yet a heart more fond, more true,
Sure never beat for thee!

O, I have joyed to see thy power,
Have wept thy crimes to view;
Affection claims my parting hour:
My native land, adieu!

My native land, adieu, adieu!
My course is o'er the sea:

Though distant climes I sail to view,

Still memory turns to thee :

There, crowned with health, with peace and love

My early moments flew ;

Sure these my fond affection prove:

My native land, adieu!

My native land, adieu, adieu!

My course is o'er the sea:

O, would that Heaven would guide me through,
And lead me back to thee!

But no, a warning voice declares

My years-my days are few:

I go:-be thine my ardent prayers:
My native land, adieu!

Sunrise on the Hills.-ANONYMOUS.

I STOOD Upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,
They gathered midway round the wooded height,
And in their fading glory shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance,

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

And, rocking on the cliff, was left
The dark pine, blasted, bare and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted; and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade,
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.
I heard the distant waters dash;

I heard the current whirl and flash;
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills,

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout

That, faint and far, the glen sent out;

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke
Through thick-leaved branches from the dingle broke.
If thou art worn and hard beset

With sorrows that thou wouldst forget-
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep-
Go to the woods and hills !-no tears

Dim the sweet look that Nature wears.

Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister.—
MICAH P. FLINT.

ON yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.

Forgive this tear. A brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.

She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,

And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.

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