A FIRST SORROW. A RISE! this day shall shine, To thee a ftar divine, On Time's dark shore. Till now thy soul has been Bid it awake, and look No fhade has come between Like some long childish dream But now the ftream has reached A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned, Is waiting thee. Each of God's soldiers bears A sword divine: Stretch out thy trembling hands To-day for thine! To each anointed Priest O soul, He speaks to-day, Then, with flow, reverent step, And, leaving all behind, Raise up thine eyes, - be strong, The crown that God has given Thy soul to-day! Miss A. A. Procter. "ONLY A YEAR." NE year ago, a ringing voice, ΟΝ ON clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Too fair to die. Only a year, no voice, no smile, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die! One year ago, what ioves, what schemes What joyous hopes, what high resolves, The filent picture on the wall, Of all that beauty, life, and joy, The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead. No pause or hush of merry birds That fing above Tells us how coldly fleeps below Where haft thou been this year, beloved? What haft thou seen? What vifions fair, what glorious life, The veil! the veil! so thin, so ftrong! 'Twixt us and thee; The myftic veil! when shall it fall, Not dead, not fleeping, not even gone; And waiting for the coming hour Lord of the living and the dead, We lay in filence at thy feet This sad, sad year! Mrs. H. B. Stowe. DISCIPLINE. GOD moves in a myfterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the ftorm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill He treasures up his bright defigns, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, Behind a frowning Providence His purposes will ripen faft, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, God is his own interpreter, William Cowper. 1779. |