A FIRST SORROW.

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RISE! this day shall shine,
Forevermore,

To thee a ftar divine,

On Time's dark shore.

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 childish 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 Priest
God's summons came:

O soul, He speaks to-day,
And calls thy name.

Then, with flow, reverent step,
And beating heart,
From out thy joyous days
Thou must depart,

And, leaving all behind,
Come forth alone,
To join the chosen band
Around the throne.

Raise up thine eyes, - be strong,
Nor caft away

The crown that God has given

Thy soul to-day!

Miss A. A. Procter.

"ONLY A YEAR."

NE year ago, a ringing voice,
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ΟΝ

ON clear blue eye,

And clustering curls of sunny hair,

Too fair to die.

Only a year, no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,

No clustering curls of golden hair,

Fair but to die!

One year ago, what ioves, 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,

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
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 shall 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.

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,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and fhall break
In bleffings 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 taste,
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.