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"Come," he saith, "ye heirs of glory;
Come, ye purchase of my blood; Claim the Kingdom now before you, Rise, and fill the mount of God,
Fix'd for ever
Where the Lamb on Sion stands."
See! ten thousand burning seraphs
From their thrones as lightnings fly; "Take," they cry, "your seats above us, Nearest Him that rules the sky!" Patient sufferers,
How rewarded are ye now!
Now their trials all are ended:
Now the dubious warfare's o'er; Joy no more with sorrow blended, They shall sigh and weep no more; God for ever
Wipes the tear from every eye. Through His passion all victorious Now they drink immortal wine; In Emmanuel's likeness glorious As the firmanent they shine; Shine for ever,
With the bright and morning Star.
Shout aloud, ye ethereal choirs!
Shout salvation to the Lamb!
In full triumph see them marching
Oh how lovely
Circling round His orient seat;
And how reverend is Thy Name!
Hail, Thou Alpha and Omega !
First and Last, of all alone! He that is, and was, and shall be, And beside whom there is none! Take the Glory,
Great Eternal Three in One!
LORD, DISMISS US WITH THY BLESSING.
LORD, dismiss us with Thy blessing,
Fill our hearts with joy and peace; Let us each, Thy love possessing, Triumph in redeeming grace; Oh refresh us,
Travelling through this wilderness.
Thanks we give, and adoration,
For Thy gospel's joyful sound; May the fruit of Thy salvation In our hearts and lives abound: May Thy presence With us evermore be found.
So, whene'er the signal's given
Reign with Christ in endless day.
THERE IS A GREEN HILL. THERE is a green hill far away, Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us all.
We may not know, we cannot tell
What pains He had to bear, But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffer'd there.
He died that we might be forgiven,
There was no other good enough
O dearly, dearly has He lov'd,
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.
MORAL AND DIDACTIC POETRY.
THE World's a bubble, and the Life of Man LIFE! I know not what thou art,
Less than a span:
In his conception wretched, from the womb, And when, or how, or where we met I own to me's a secret yet.
So to the tomb;
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to
Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy
'Tis hard to part when friends are dearPerhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
-Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-Night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-Morning.
ANNA LETITIA BARBauld.
I MOURN no more my vanish'd years:
An April rain of smiles and tears,
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
No longer forward nor behind
I plough no more a desert land,
I break my pilgrim staff,-I lay
The angel sought so far away
The airs of spring may never play
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given ;—
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And so the shadows fall apart,
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
The woods shall wear their robes of praise, SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
The south wind softly sigh, And sweet, calm days, in golden haze Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and word
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,-
Nor less my heart for others feel
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
Encgh that blessings undeserved
Have mark'd my erring track;That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, His chastening turn'd me back ;—
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ;
That death seems but a cover'd way
Which opens into light, Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last, Through Memory's sunset air, Like mountain-ranges overpast, In purple distance fair;—
Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing
But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing
And still, oh still, their dying breath is
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!
AUBREY De Vere
THE STREAM OF LIFE.
O STREAM descending to the sea,
In garden-plots the children play,
O life descending into death,