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Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of

glory,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the

tide,
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah bas triumph'd-his people are free.

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ire; ale

MOORE

THE EVENING CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson ting'd its braided snow,
Long had I watch'd the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seem’d, and floated slow,

E'en in its very motion there was rest;
While ev'ry breath of eve that chanc'd to blow,

Wafted the trav'ller to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is giv'n,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heav'n.
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

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WILSON

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Than summer ev’ning's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose,
I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart, beneath the soil ;
To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.
The grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide;
O listen!—I will speak no more :-

Be silent, pride!
Art thou a mourner ? hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights,
Endearing days for ever flown,

And tranquil nights ?
O live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past :
Rely on Heav'n's unchanging will

For peace at last.
Tho' long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam ;
Live! thou shalt reach a shelt'ring port,

A quiet home.
Seek the true treasure, seldom found,
Of pow'r the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound

With heav'nly balm.
Whate'er thy lot-where'er thou bem
Confess thy folly-kiss the rod;
And in thy chast ning sorrows see

The hand of God.
A bruised reed he will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;

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He wounds them for his mercy's sake,

He wounds to heal!
Humbled beneath bis mighty hand,
Prostrate, his providence adore:
'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand,

To fall no more.
Now, tray'ller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Thro' Time's dark wilderness of years

Pursue thy flight.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found :
And while the mould'ring ashes sleep

Low in the ground,
The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image freed from clay,
In heav'n's eternal sphere shall shine

A star of day!
The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
SHALL NEVER DIE!

MONTGOMERY,

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THE DOVE.
The dove let loose in eastern skies,

Returning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam;
But high she shoots through air and light,

Above all low delay;

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!

THE DECEITFULNESS OF THE WORLD.
In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile
Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are

blest,
We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
Where sorrow's

unknown, and the weary have

Oue Teta

rest.

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But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we

enjoy'd,
Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;
While the dark beating tempest, on life’s stormy

tide,
Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright

ray.
Then where are those bowers, in some gay happy

plain,
Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye

true;
Where the brightness of morning shines on but to

gain
A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

Glit

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find rest ;

Oh! ask for if not, in this valley of sighs,

Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can For the world we would wish, shines afar in the

skies, Where sorrow's unknown—'tis the home of the

blest !

W KIR.

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HEAVENLY MINSTREL.
Enthrou'd upon a hill of light,

A heav'nly minstrel sings;
And sounds, unutterably bright,

Spring from the golden strings.
Who would have thought so fair a form
Once bent beneath an earthly storm!
Yet was he sad and lonely here;

Of low and humble birth;
And mingled, while in this dark sphere,

With meanest sons of earth.
In spirit poor, in look forlorn,
The jest of mortals and the scorn.
A crown of heav'nly radiance now,

A harp of golden strings,
Glitters upon his deathless brow,

And to his hymn-note rings.
The bow'r of interwoven light
Seems, at the sound, to grow more bright.
Then while with visage blank and sear,

The poor in soul we see ;
Let us not think what he is here,

But what he soon will be ;

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