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ABRAHAM DISMISSING HAGAR.

The stranger's, orphan's God art Thou —

Be ours amidst the trackless wild!

Do with me as thou wilt-I bow-

But save, oh, save my guiltless child !"

THOMAS DALE

The last Judgment.

THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
What power shall be the sinner's stay ?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?
When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be God the trembling sinner's stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

WALTER SCOTT.

The Reaper and the flowers.

THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. "Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he: "Have nought but the bearded grain?

Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kiss'd their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled:
Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,

And saints, upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The Reaper came that day;

"Twas an angel visited the green earth,

And took the flowers away.

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Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, the streets of Salem now,
Nor are their voices lifted up on Zion's sadden'd brow;

Nor are their garnish'd sepulchres with pious sorrow kept,

Where once the same Jerusalem, that kill'd them, came and wept.

But still the seed of Abraham with joy upon it look,

And lay their ashes at its feet, that Kedron's feeble brook

Still washes, as its waters creep along their rocky bed,

And Israel's God is worshipp'd yet where Zion lifts her head.

Yes;-every morning, as the day breaks over Olivet,

The holy name of Allah comes from every minaret;

At every eve the mellow call floats on the quiet air,

"Lo, God is God! Before him come, before him come, for prayer'

199

வேல்

JERUSALEM.

I know, when at that solemn call the city holds her breath,
That Omar's mosque hears not the name of Him of Nazareth!
But Abraham's God is worshipp'd there alike by age and youth,
And worshipp'd,-hopeth charity," in spirit and in truth."

Yea, from that day when Salem knelt and bent her queenly neck
To him who was, at once, her Priest and King,-Melchisedek,
To this, when Egypt's Abraham the sceptre and the sword

Shakes o'er her head, her holy men have bow'd before the Lord.

Jerusalem, I would have seen thy precipices steep,

The trees of palm that overhang thy gorges dark and deep,
The goats that cling along thy cliffs, and browse upon thy rocks,

Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, thy shepherds and their flocks

I would have mused, while Night hung out her silver lamp so pale,
Beneath those ancient olive trees that grow in Kedron's vale,
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides the city's wall sublime,
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks defy the scythe of Time.

The Garden of Gethsemanè those aged olive trees

Are shading yet, and in their shade I would have sought the breeze,
That, like an angel, bathed the brow, and bore to heaven the prayer,
Of Jesus, when, in agony, He sought the Father there.

I would have gone to Calvary, and, where the Marys stood
Bewailing loud the Crucified, as near him as they could,

I would have stood, till Night o'er earth her heavy pall had thrown,
And thought upon my Saviour's cross, and learned to bear my own.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thy cross thou bearest now!

An iron yoke is on thy neck, and blood is on thy brow;

Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, thou didst reject as dross,
And now thy cross is on thee laid, the Crescent is thy cross!

It was not mine, nor will it be, to see the bloody rod

That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, thou city of our God! But round thy hill the spirits throng of all thy murder'd seers,

And voices that went up from it are ringing in my ears,—

JERUSALEM.

Went up that day, when darkness fell from all thy firmament,

And shrouded thee at noon; and when thy temple's vail was rent, And graves of holy men, that touch'd thy feet, gave up their dead :— Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, HIS BLOOD IS ON THY HEAD!

JOHN PIERPONT

The Heart Song.

In the silent midnight watches, list-thy bosom door!
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh-knocketh evermore!
Say not, 'tis thy pulse's beating; 'tis thy heart of sin:

"Tis thy Saviour knocketh, crieth, "Rise, and let me in."

Death comes down, with reckless footstep, to the hall and hut;
Think you Death will stand a-knocking when the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth, waiteth, waiteth, but the door is fast!
Grieved, away the Saviour goeth; Death breaks in at last.

Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating Christ to let thee in,

At the gate of heaven beating, wailing for thy sin.
Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin! hast thou then forgot,
Jesus waited long to know thee, but he knows thee not?

ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE.

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