It' were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:-
And thy dark sin!-Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this wo its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

Hymn of Nature.-W. O. B. PEABODY.

GoD of the earth's extended plains!
The dark green fields contented lie:
The mountains rise like holy towers,

Where man might commune with the sky:

The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lowers upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams,
With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands,

Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands;

Then the white sails are dashed like foam,
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas,
Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale
Serenely breathes, Depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!
The grandeur of the lonely tree,
That wrestles singly with the gale,
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee;

But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cryBreathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright
In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light.
For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

The Garden of Gethsemane.-J. PIERPONT.

O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,
And Olivet's brown steep,

Moves the majestic queen of night,

And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep ;-

All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care-

Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless;--
These leave the couch of restlessness,

To breathe the cool, calm air.

For those who shun the glare of day,
There's a composing power,

That meets them, on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.

'Tis a religious hour;-for he,
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.

O, Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,

May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,

In trust and prayer like him.

Trust in God.—PERCIVAL.

THOU art, O Lord, my only trust,
When friends are mingled with the dust,
And all my loves are gone.

When earth has nothing to bestow,

And every flower is dead below,

I look to thee alone.

Thou wilt not leave, in doubt and fear,
The humble soul, who loves to hear
The lessons of thy word.
When foes around us thickly press,
And all is danger and distress,
There's safety in the Lord.

The bosom friend may sleep below
The churchyard turf, and we may go
To close a loved one's eyes:
They will not always slumber there;
We see a world more bright and fair,
A home beyond the skies.

And we may feel the bitter dart,
Most keenly rankling in the heart,
By some dark ingrate driven:
In us revenge can never burn;
We pity, pardon; then we turn,
And rest our souls in heaven.

'Tis thou, O Lord, who shield'st my head,
And draw'st thy curtains round my bed;
I sleep secure in thee;

And, O, may soon that time arrive,
When we before thy face shall live
Through all eternity.

Heaven.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

THE earth, all light and loveliness, in summer's golden hours, Smiles, in her bridal vesture clad, and crowned with festal flowers,

So radiantly beautiful, so like to heaven above,

We scarce can deem more fair that world of perfect bliss and

love.

Is this a shadow, faint and dim, of that which is to come? What shall the unveiled glories be of our celestial home, Where waves the glorious tree of life, where streams of bliss gush free,

And all is glowing in the light of immortality!

To see again the home of youth, when weary years have passed,

Serenely bright, as when we turned and looked upon it last;
To hear the voice of love, to meet the rapturous embrace,
To gaze, through tears of gladness, on each dear familiar face-

Oh! this indeed is joy, though here we meet again to part
But what transporting bliss awaits the pure and faithful heart,
Where it shall find the loved and lost, those who have gone
before,

Where every tear is wiped away, where partings come no more!

When, on Devotion's seraph wings, the spirit soars above,
And feels thy presence, Father, Friend, God of eternal love,-
Joys of the earth, ye fade away before that living ray,
Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse of pure and perfect
day-

A gleam of heaven's own light-though now its brightness scarce appears

Through the dim shadows, which are spread around this vale

of tears;

But thine unclouded smile, O God, fills that all glorious place, Where we shall know as we are known, and see thee face to face!

Geehale. An Indian Lament.-ANONYMOUS.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore
As sweetly and gayly as ever before;

For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,

And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light,

As it ever reflected, or ever expressed,

When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best.

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,
Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,
For they know that their mates are expecting them back.
Each bird, and each beast, it is blessed in degree :
All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.