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May ready be,
To welcome Thee,
Whene'er Thou comest to set my spirit free.

My times are in Thy hand!

Howe'er those times may end,
Sudden, or slow, my soul's release,
'Midst anguish, phrenzy, or in peace,
I'm safe with Christ


If He is nigh
Howe'er I die,
'Twill be the dawn of Heavenly ecstacy.

My times are in Thy hand!

To Thee I can entrust
My slumb’ring clay 'till Thy command
Bids all the dead before Thee stand,
Awaking from the dust.

Beholding Thee,
What bliss 'twill be
With all Thy saints to spend eternity!

To spend eternity

In Heaven's unclouded light!
From sorrow, sin and frailty free,
Beholding and resembling Thee
Oh, too transporting sight!

Prospect too fair
For flesh to bear,
Haste, haste, my Lord, and soon transport me there.

N. H.

FULL soon must all these summer birds be gone
Take to their wings and leave thee, every one.


6 THERE are rare and precious moments, snatched from the whirl of life, and spent in stillness and alone. Even when not devoted to direct meditation, and appearing too fleeting to be productive of much good, they yet tend to give us a knowledge of the realities that encompass us. By the depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us, that, beneath the surface of this weary, working existence, there is another worldanother and an enduring life imaged in the unchanging sky, and the returning sun, and the ever renewed beauty of the trees and flowers, and the steadfastness of the everlasting hills : and if our hearts are open to the truth, they may sometimes teach us to remember, that, as in far off years, the glorious Temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither axe, nor hammer, nor tool, giving warning or notice of the work -so the more glorious temple--the Church of the living Godis, at this moment, rising unperceived in the midst of a tumultuous world : each stone quarried and fashioned by the sharp edge of sorrow, and the keen stroke of adversity, until, perfected and prepared, it is fitted for that destined position, which shall be the place of its rest for eternity. It does not signify, in the concerns of life, whether we are called upon to rule a kingdom, or pick up stones on the highway, if only what we do is work : work for Him, that shall turn to account in the reckoning of the long day of life: work for Him to whom nothing is great, and therefore nothing can be little."


The Slaue Singing at Midnight

. .

LOUD he sang the psalm of David !
He, a Negro and enslaved ;
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear,
That I could not choose but hear ;

Songs of triumph and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,

the Red Sea coast,
Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion,
Filled my soul with strange emotion ;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen ;
And an earthquake's arm of might,
Broke their dungeon gates at night.

But, alas ! what holy angel,
Brings the slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might,
Breaks his dungeon gates at night?


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