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invigorating, and purifying; it cools the fevered brow, moistens the parched lips, and quenches the burning thirst; with the aid of the north-wind it produces the cooling ice, and flakes the mantling snow; it distils in enlivening dew, and descends in refreshing showers; it washes the filth from the surface of the earth and the poisonous malaria from the atmosphere; it imparts health, and promotes life; it is life's Balm of Gilead; it is the Abana and Pharpar of creation.

And, with the aid of the vernal breezes, it paints the flowers, bedecks the forest, and covers the earth with its carpet of green; it bedews the flowers, and makes their fragrance as sweet as the perfumes of Araby; it forms both the storm-cloud and the river, the sea and the ocean; it turns the mill-wheel, moves the spindle, and forms channels for conveying the wares of merchandise; it floats alike the mariner's stately craft and the Indian's light canoe; it is the great, broad highway of the world's traffic.

That's what it is; and now, what is it not? It is not a beverage that brings the orphan's tear or causes the widow's wail; it is not the drink that demons delight to quaff; it is not what the murderer imbibes to prepare for his deed of crime, or the reveler to besot his midnight debauch; it is not a liquid that dethrones reason and produces delirium; no ghosts of murdered innocents awake from their slumbers to pronounce its anathema; no lone prisoner accuses it of the crime that has brought him to the dungeon cell; no felon on the scaffold ever curses it for his untimely end; no courts of justice are ever kept busy with its crimes; and no prisons or almshouses are ever filled with its victims!

A glass of water has no bubbles of poison on its sur face, no foam in which lurk sadness and sorrow; ne heart-broken wives, grief-stricken widows, or starving orphans ever shed tears in its limpid depths; and no "drunkard's ghost, shrieking from the grave, ever curses it in words of eternal despair." But it is clear, beautiful, blessed, and glorious! Let us drink always and only the sparkling, pure, crystal water.

OUT

HENRY H. HOLLOWAY.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

UT in the midnight's white and starry splendor
Once more the glad bells ring,

While softer human voices, sweet and tender,
The songs of Christmas sing,-

Christmas is come.

The whole clear night seems bending low to listen;
The church lifts up its cross;

And solitary, snow capped mountains glisten,
And blue seas flash and toss,-

Christmas is come!

From sea to sea a mighty voice is pealing,

On moorland bleak and wide,

Through frozen fields and dead rose-gardens stealing, By wood and water-side,—

Christmas is come!

To lighted hearths whose fires make silver linings
Behind the day's dark cloud.

To halls where Beauty's summer light is shining,
Where dancers laugh and crowd,
Christmas is come!

O world! O life! O hearts in sorrow sighing!

Remember that to-day

Across the waste of time about you lying
The Saviour finds His way.

Christmas is come!

Oh! low and sweet the Christmas carols falter,
Then rise with rich increase,

And for an hour about one shrine and altar
All nations stand at peace.
Christmas is come!

"Long love, long peace and reconciliation,"

We sing aloud, and then,

Their tones grown strong with joy and exultation, The great bells chime, Amen!

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'Tis sweet to keep my hand in His,
While all is dim ;

To close my weary, aching eyes,
And follow Him.

Through many a thorny path He leads
My tired feet;

Through many a path of tears I go;
But it is sweet

To know that He is close to me,

My God, my Guide;

He leadeth me, and so I walk
Quite satisfied.

To blind my eyes, He may reveal
No light at all;

But while I lean on His strong arm
I cannot fall.

RICHMOND CHRISTIAN ADVOCATE

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Nothing is hid from Thee,
Without, within ;

All that I have or am

Is wholly Thine,
So is my soul at peace,

For Thou art mine.
To-morrow's dawn may find
Me here or there;

It matters little, since Thy love
Is everywhere!

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A MIDNIGHT HYMN.

the mild silence of the voiceless night,

When, chased by airy dreams, the slumbers flee, Whom in the darkness doth my spirit seek,

O God! but Thee?

And if there be a weight upon my breast-
Some vague impression of the day foregone-
Scarce knowing what it is, I fly to Thee
And lay it down.

If it be the heaviness that comes

In token of anticipated ill,

My bosom takes no heed of what it is,
Since 'tis Thy will.

For oh! in spite of past and present care,
Or anything besides, how joyfully

Passes that almost solitary hour,

My God, with Thee!

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