THE SOUL THIRSTING AFTER GOD.

Yet thy sure mercies ever in my sight,

My heart shall gladden through the tedious day;
And, 'midst the dark and gloomy shades of night,

To Thee I'll duly tune the grateful lay.

Rock of my hope! great solace of my heart!
O! why desert the offspring of thy care,
While taunting foes thus point the invidious dart-
"Where is thy God? abandon'd wanderer, where?"

Why faint, my soul? Why doubt Jehovah's aid?
Thy God, the God of mercy still shall prove;
Within his courts thy thanks shall yet be paid ;-
Unquestion'd be his faithfulness and love.

A Poet's Prayer.

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O God! it is an awful thing indeed,
For one who estimates our nature well,
Be what it may his outward sect, or creed,
To name thee, thou incomprehensible!
Hadst thou not chosen of thyself to tell,

As in thy gospel thou hast done; nor less,
By condescending in our hearts to dwell;

Could man have ever found to thee access, Or worshipp'd thee aright in spiritual holiness?

No! for the utmost that we could have done, Were to have raised, as Paul at Athens saw,

Altars unto the dread and unknown One,

Bending before we knew not what with awe; And even now, instructed by a law

Holier than that of Moses, what know we Of thee, the Highest? Yet thou bidst us draw Near thee in spirit; O, then pardon me If, in this closing strain, I crave a boon of thee.

It shall be this: Permit me not to place

My soul's affections on the things of earth; But, conscious of the treasures of thy grace, To let them, in my inmost heart, give birth

A POET'S PRAYER.

To gratitude proportion'd to their worth:

Teach me to feel that all that thou hast made Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth,

Though meant with filial love to be survey'd, Is nothing to thy self-the shadow of a shade.

If thou hast given me, more than unto some,
A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair,
Which sometimes renders admiration dumb,
From consciousness that words cannot declare
The beauty thou hast scatter'd everywhere;

O grant that this may lead me still, through all
Thy works, to thee! nor prove a treacherous snare
Adapted those affections to enthrall

Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call.

I would not merely dream my life away

In fancied rapture, or imagined joy;

Nor that a perfumed flower, a dew-gemm'd spray,
A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy,
Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ;
So far alone as nature's charms can lead

To thee who framed them all, and can destroy,

Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed,

Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read.

But while from one extreme thy power may keep

My erring frailty, O preserve me still

From dulness! nor let cold indifference steep
My senses in oblivion: if the thrill

Of early bliss must sober, as it will,

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A POET'S PRAYER.

And should, when earthly things to heavenly yield,
I would have feelings left time cannot chill;

That while I yet can walk through grove or field,
I may be conscious there of charms by thee reveal'd.

And when I shall, as soon or late I must,

Become infirm; in age, if I grow old;

Or, sooner, if my strength should fail its trust;
When I relinquish haunts where I have stroll'd

At morn or eve, and can no more behold

Thy glorious works: forbid me to repine;

Let memory still their loveliness unfold

Before my mortal eye, and let them shine

With borrow'd light from thee, for they are thine!

BERNARD BARTON.

Acquaint Thyself with God.

Job xxii. 21.

ACQUAINT thee, O mortal! acquaint thee with God;
And joy, like the sunshine, shall beam on thy road;
And peace, like the dew-drop, shall fall on thy head;
And sleep, like an angel, shall visit thy bed.

Acquaint thee, O mortal! acquaint thee with God;
And he shall be with thee when fears are abroad,
Thy safeguard, in danger that threatens thy path,-
Thy joy, in the valley and shadow of death.

ΚΝΟΣ.

The Ballad of Lutzen.

Ox Lutzen's morn, ere heaven's red flame the drooping clouds had kiss'd,
Or break of day had roll'd away the morning's heaving mist,
The word was pass'd along the line, and all our men array'd
Stood front and rear, each musketeer, in silence and in shade.

No trumpet swell'd its rallying blast, no clarion's pealing breath,
No beaten drum proclaim'd "they come," across the field of death;
But shrouded in the wreathing mist, with steadfast tread and slow,
With hearts prepared and weapons bared, we march'd upon the foe.

"Halt, halt!" the cry rang through the host, "their ranks are all in view,
Yon murky sun, that rose so dun, the mantling gray breaks through;
Let fools down battle's gory paths rush headlong on to death,
We own the Power that rules the hour, the Lord of life and breath!"

And full before the Leaguers' host we seek, on bended knee,
With lifted face, His sovereign grace, whose word is fate's decree.
To Him uprose in chorus deep each squadron's lofty psalm,
And swell'd in air our heartfelt prayer on Nature's breathless calm.

The king was there, with burning hope his manly visage glow'd,
As oft before, at battle's hour, along our front he rode;

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Now, soldiers, now," and answer'd well each heart the kingly tone, "For holy faith, for life or death,—Lord Jesus, aid thine own!"