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It is not that the fig-tree grows,

And palms, in thy foft air;

But that Sharon's fair and bleeding rofe
Once spread her fragrance there.

Graceful around the mountains meet,
Thou calm reposing sea;

But ah! far more! the beautiful feet
Of Jefus walked o'er thee.

Those days are paft!-Bethfaida, where?
Chorazin, where art thou?

His tent the wild Arab pitches there,
The wild reeds fhade thy brow.

Tell me, ye mouldering fragments tell,
Was the Saviour's city here?
Lifted to Heaven, has it funk to hell,
With none to shed a tear?

Ah! would my flock from Thee might learn How days of grace will flee;

How all an offered Chrift who spurn

Shall mourn at last like thee.

And was it befide this very sea
The new-rifen Saviour faid

Three times to Simon, "Lovest thou me ?
My lambs and fheep then feed."

O Saviour! gone to God's right hand,

Yet the fame Saviour still;

Graved on thy heart is this lovely strand,
And every fragrant hill.

Oh! give me Lord, by this facred wave,
Threefold thy love divine;

That I may feed, till I find my grave,
Thy flock, both thine and mine.

MCCHEYNE.*

LVIII.

ST. JOHN.

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E hath gone to the place of his reft,
He is fafe in the home of his God;
And we who have loved him, forfaken,
oppreffed,

Submiffive would bow to the rod.
Though his accents can cheer us no more,
His love yet may speak from the grave;
And thus on the broad wing of Faith may we foar
To One who is mighty to fave.

Our friend and our father we heard,

On earth, paint the glories of Heaven ;But now the lone Church, like a wandering bird, To the home of the defert is driven.

Entranced, on his vifions we hung;

Our hearts and our hopes were above; For the words of Perfuafion fell foft from his tongue, And the foul of his teaching was Love.

* Written by the Sea of Galilee, July 16th, 1839.

In vain the ftern Tyrant affailed

With threats of the dungeon or grave;—

He spoke but the word, and the timid ne'er quailed In pangs that had mastered the brave.

The babe hath endured, while its frame

With the scourge and the torture was torn — The maiden, the mother, in chariots of flame, To glory triumphant were borne.

For what were thy terrors, O Death?

And where was thy triumph, O Grave?

When the vest of pure white and the conquering wreath,

Were the prize of the fcorned and the flave? Oh! then to our Father was given,

To read the bright visions on high;

He gave to our view the full glories of Heaven;We heard and we haftened to die.

Some died-they are with thee above;

Some live-they lament for thee now;

But who would recall thee, blest Saint, from the love

That circles with glory thy brow? Long, long didft thou linger below,

But the term of thine exile is o'er;

And praises shall mix with the tears that must flow
From the eyes that behold thee no more.

Praise praise that thy trials are past!
Joy-joy-that thy triumph is won!

The thrones are completed-for thine is the laft
Of the twelve that encircle the Son!

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O Lord! fhall the time not be yet

When thy church fhall be bleffed and free?

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Still am I nearer heaven than when I first believed.

Thou art the voice of Love,
To chide each doubt away;
And as the murmur faintly dies,
Vifions of past enjoyment rise
In long and bright array.
I hail the fign,

That Love Divine

Will o'er my future path in cloudless glory fhine.

Thou art the Voice of Life,

A found which seems to say,
O prifoner in this gloomy vale,

Thy flesh may faint, thy heart may fail,
Yet fairer fcenes thy spirit hail,

Which shall not pass away.

Here grief and pain

Thy fteps detain;

There, in the image of thy Lord, fhalt thou with Jefus reign.

LX.

THE MILLENNIUM.

WHAT a bright and bleffed world
This groaning earth of ours will be,
When from its throne the tempter
hurled,

Shall leave it all, O Lord, to Thee!

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