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The theme will give the power-before unknown, And the full heart roll out the tide of song,

Poured by the deaf and dumb.

C. J.

XLII.

THE SABBATH.

ABBATH hours ! they come and go

Like the summer streamlet's flow,
Bringing to the waste relief,
Beautiful, but oh! too brief;

Sparkling in the golden ray,
Iris-coloured—then away !
Yet fertility is seen
Fresher, where the stream hath been.

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Sabbath hours ! ye come between,
Like an islet's emerald green,
Rising o'er life's stormy sea,
Where its wearied ones may flee;
Catching, from its tide-washed strand,
Visions of their father-land,
Till they deem the soft winds come,
Breathing melodies from home.

May the Sabbath ever be,
Harbinger of good to me!
Calling up my soul from earth -
Fixing it on things of worth.

Swiftly do its sunbeams fly,
O'er this changing wintry sky :
And, in Heaven's sabbatic bowers,
I shall praise Thee for these hours.

XLIII.

THE SABBATH.

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HERE'S music in the morning air,

A holy voice and sweet,
For calling to the House of Prayer

The humblest peasant's feet.

From hill and vale, and distant moor, Long as the chime is heard, Each cottage sends its tenants poor,

For God's enriching Word.

Still where the British power hath trod,

The cross of faith ascends ; And like a radiant arch of God,

The light of Scripture bends ! Deep in the forest wilderness,

The wood-built Church is known; A sheltering wing in man's distress,

Spread like the Saviour's own!

The warrior from his armed tent,

The seaman from the tide -
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent,

In Christian nations wide,

Thousands and tens of thousands bring,

Their sorrows to His shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring

Of Jesus' love divine !

If at an earthly chime the tread

Of million, million feet,
Approach where'er the Gospel's read,

In God's own temple feat ;
How bleft the fight, from death's dark sleep,

To see God's saints arise,
And countless hosts of angels keep

The Sabbath of the Skies !

XLIV.

HOLY SORROW.

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H! Thou, that driest the mourner's

tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here,

We could not fly to Thee!

The friends, who in our sunshine live,

When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give

those tears alone.

Must weep

But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,

And even hope, that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimmed and vanished too,

Oh! who could bear life's stormy doom,

Did not Thy Word of love
Come brightly bearing, through the gloom,

A peace-branch from above?

Then forrow, touched by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray,
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We could not see by day.

THOMAS Moore.

XLV.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN sore afflictions crush the soul,

And riven is every earthly tie,
The heart must cling to God alone,
He wipes the tear from ev'ry eye.

Through wakeful nights, when rack'd with pain,

On bed of languishing you lie, Remember still your God is near,

To wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

A few short years and all is o'er,

Your sorrow-pain—will soon pass by; Then lean in faith on God's dear Son,

He'll wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

Oh! never be

your

foul cast down, Nor let your heart desponding sigh ; Afsur'd that God, whose name is love, Will wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

Mrs. MacKINLAY.

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