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ARISE! this day fhall fhine,
To thee a ftar divine,

On Time's dark more.

Till now thy soul has been

All glad and gay: Bid it awake, and look

At grief to-day!

No fhade has come between

Thee and the sun; Like some long childifh dream

Thy life has run:

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 Prieft

God's summons came: O soul, He speaks to-day,

And calls thy name.

Then, with flow, reverent ftep,

And beating heart, From out thy joyous days

Thou muft depart,

And, leaving all behind,

Come forth alone, To join the chosen band

Around the throne.

Raise up thine eyes, — be ftrong,

Nor caft away
The crown that God has given

Thy soul to-day!

Miss A. A. Profier.


ONE year ago, — a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,
And cluftering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year, — no voice, no smile,

No glance of eye,
No cluftering curls of golden hair,

Fair but to die!

One year ago, — what loves, what schemes

Far into life!
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,

What generous ftrife!

The filent picture on the wall,

The burial ftone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy,

Remain alone!

One year, — one year, — one little year, —

And so much gone!
And yet the even flow of life

Moves calmly on.

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 hufh of merry birds

That fing above
Tells us how coldly fleeps below

The form we love.

Where haft thou been this year, beloved?

What haft thou seen?
What vifions fair, what glorious life,

Where thou haft been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so ftrong!

'Twixt us and thee;
The myftic veil! when fhall it fall,

That we may see?

Not dead, not fleeping, not even gone;

But present ftill,
And waiting for the coming hour

Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,

Our Saviour dear!
We lay in filence at thy feet

This sad, sad year!

Mrs. H. B. Stowe.


GOD moves in a myfterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footfteps in the sea,
And rides upon the ftorm.


Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing fkill
He treasures up his bright defigns,

And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, frefh courage take;

The clouds' ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and fhall break

In bleflings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But truft him for his grace;

Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen faft,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter tafte,

But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;

God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

William Cowper. 1779.

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