"For the source of glory uncovers his face,
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space;
And we drink as we go the luminous tides
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides;
Lo, yonder the living splendors play;
Away, on our joyous path, away!

"Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar,
In the infinite azure, star after star,

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass!
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass!
And the path of the gentle winds is seen,

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean.

"And see where the brighter day-beams pour,
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower;
And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews;
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground,
With her shadowy cone the night goes round!

"Away, away! in our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours,
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born,
And breathing myriads are breaking from night,
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.

"Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres,
To weave the dance that measures the years;
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent.

To the farthest wall of the firmament,—

The boundless visible smile of Him,

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim."

THE HOLY DEAD.

Sigunrury.

THEY dread no storm that lowers,
No perish'd joys bewail;

They pluck no thorn-clad flowers,
Nor drink of streams that fail :
There is no tear-drop in their eye,
No change upon their brow;
Their placid bosom heaves no sigh
Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?

From whom hath sorrow fled ?
Who share such deep, unbroken rest
Where all things toil? The dead!
The holy dead. Why weep ye so
Above yon sable bier ?

Thrice blessed! they have done with woe ;

The living claim the tear.

Go to their sleeping bowers,

Deck their low couch of clay

With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers;

And when they fade away,

Think of the amaranthine wreath,
The garlands never dim,

And tell me why thou fliest from death,
Or hid'st thy friends from him.

We dream, but they awake;

Dread visions mar our rest;

Through thorns and snares our way we take,
And yet we mourn the blest!
For spirits round the Eternal Throne
How vain the tears we shed!
They are the living, they alone,
Whom thus we call the dead.

SONG IN THE DESERT.

Lyte.

FAR from my heavenly home,
Far from my Father's breast,
Fainting I cry,-Blest Spirit, come,
And speed me to my rest.

Upon the willows long

My harp has silent hung;

How should I sing a cheerful song,
Till Thou inspire my tongue?

My spirit homeward turns,

And fain would thither flee:

My heart, O Zion, droops and yearns,
When I remember thee.

To thee, to thee I press,

A dark and toilsome road;
When shall I pass the wilderness,
And reach the saints' abode ?

God of my life, be near;

On thee my hopes I cast:

O guide me through the desert here,
And bring me home at last.

A FATHER TO HIS MOTHERLESS CHILDREN.

COME, gather closer to my side,

My little smitten flock,

And I will tell of him who brought

Pure water from the rock-
Who boldly led God's people forth
From Egypt's wrath and guile,
And once a cradled babe did float
All helpless on the Nile.

You're weary, precious ones, your eyes
Are wandering far and wide—

Think

ye of her who knew so well

Your tender thought to guide ?
Who could to wisdom's sacred lore

Your fixed attention claim ?

Ah! never from your hearts erase
That blessed Mother's name.

'Tis time to sing your evening hymn,
My youngest infant dove,

Come, press your velvet cheek to mine,
And learn the lay of love;

My sheltering arms can clasp you all,

My poor deserted throng,

Cling as you used to cling to her
Who sings the angel's song.

Begin, sweet birds, the accustomed strain,

Come, warble loud and clear;

Alas! alas! you're weeping all,

You're sobbing in my ear;

Good night-go, say the prayer she taught,

Beside your little bed,

The lips that used to bless

Are silent with the dead.

OUR GREAT HIGH PRIEST.

Logan.

WHERE high the heavenly temple stands, The house of God not made with hands, A great High Priest our nature wears, The Patron of mankind appears.

He who for men in mercy stood,

And pour'd on earth his precious blood,
Pursues in heav'n his plan of grace,
The guardian of the human race.

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