THE HOUR OF PRAYER. Ere these received their name or birth, The first-the last--the greatest-best. When faith and hope, from earth set free, Eternal daughter of the skies, She mounts to heaven--and never dies! THOMAS RAFFLES. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. BLEST hour! when mortal man retires Blest hour! when earthly cares resign Blest hour! when God himself draws nigh, To list the penitential sigh, And wipe away the mourner's tear. Blest hour!-for then where he resorts, And mortals find his earthly courts, Hail! peaceful hour, supremely blest 163 And when my hours of prayer are past, Oh! may I leave these Sabbath days, To find eternity at last A never-ending hour of praise. JAMES CALLANAN. IF I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST. SHINE on, thou bright beacon, From thy high place of calmness Its smooth waves are gone, High, high o'er the worlds Where the storms are unknown, Thou dwellest all beauteous, All glorious,—alone. From the deep womb of darkness The lightning-flash leaps, O'er the bark of my fortunes CONSOLATION. When the voice of the storm Where art thou now? The wild waters shriek O'er each plunge of thy prow; Then, lone one, shine on, 165 THOMAS DALE. CONSOLATION. THE loved, but not the lost, 'Tis we, who still are toss'd O'er life's wild sea, 'tis we who die: They only live, whose life is immortality. The loved, but not the lost, Why should our ceaseless tears be shed From out the book of life? Ah no! Tis we who scarcely live, that linger still below. The loved, but not the lost, Of battle-now their crown is won; Our sword is scarce unsheathed, our warfare just begun. Have they not passed away From all that dims the tearful eye; From all the pangs that prey On the bereaved heart, and most When conscience dares not say, the loved, but not the lost? This is the woe of woes! The one o'er-mastering agony; To watch the sleep of those who die, But they, who join the heavenly host, Why should we mourn for them, the loved, but not the lost? The spirit was but born, The soul unfettered, when they fled Then wherefore should we mourn? WE, the wave-driven, the tempest-toss'd, When shall we be with them, the loved, but not the lost? REFLECTIONS ON RETIRING TO REST. Ir is good, when we lay on the pillow our head, A day-what a trifle !—and yet the amount Of the days we have pass'd form an awful account: In whose service have we through the day been employed, THE GREEN PASTURES. 167 Hath the sense of His presence encompass'd us round, Without whom not a sparrow can fall to the ground? Have our hearts turn'd to Him with devotion most true, Or been occupied only with things that we view? Have we often reflected how soon we must go Let us then with ourselves solemn conference hold, MRS. DUNCAN. THE GREEN PASTURES.* I WALKED in a field of fresh clover this morn, And under the hedge ran a clear water brook, And when I remember the beautiful psalm, That tells about Christ and his pastures so green; I know he is willing to make me his lamb, And happier far than the lambs I have seen. * This and some other pieces, equally simple and beautiful, are taken from a delightful little work, entitled "School-room Lyrics," published in 1846, by Darton and Clark, of London, |