Puslapio vaizdai
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TO THE GENTIANELLA.

ANN BEALE.

OH! Would my breast were like to thine,
Thou dark and lovely flower;

Open whene'er the sun doth shine,
But clos'd against the shower:
Gladly receiving all that's bright,
Refusing all that's ill,

Conscious of tempest and of blight,
But pure and shielded still.

As thou dost ope thy dark blue eye
The mid-day sun to greet,
And gazest deeply on the sky

Until his beams retreat;
So should our inward eye

unclose

To every blessing given, Nor careless sink into repose,

Whilst all is bright in heaven.

So should our inmost hearts unfold
To mercies from on high,

Nor e'er be closed, or dead, or cold,
To sun-like charity.

But wherefore slowly droops thy head?
Why bends thy stem, sweet flower?
Are the dark leaves, so late outspread,
To wither in an hour?

The tempest broods-how keen thy sense!
Each leaf is folded fast,

And thou must make thy self-defence
Against the sweeping blast.

Harmless the winds have passed thee by ;

The rain-drops find no rest;

Lightly they fall, as tear or sigh,

Upon thy guarded breast.

Thus should the world's keen, biting breath

And changing atmosphere

Its poisoned winds, that tell of death-
Its blights, that fall to sere-

Find the heart guarded well, and steeled,
Their harsh assaults to bear;
Enclosed in virtue like a shield,

And firmly girt with Prayer!

RUTH AND NAOMI.

MRS RILEY.

LEAVE thee, my mother? think'st thou we can part?
Doth not thy look belie thy lip's command?
Will not the sunshine of one faithful heart

Cheer thy sad journey to thy native land?
A sonless, widowed wanderer though thou be,
Thou art not childless while I am with thee.

Thy slightest wish was wont in happier days,
In our glad home to serve as a behest;
Thy wish, if not thy word, she still obeys,

When thy child seeks with thee a peaceful rest,
Where Israel's faith with Israel's name is found,
And holy worship makes it sacred ground.

Think'st thou the faith taught by the lips I lov'd
Hath faded with the voice that gave it birth?
That vision of a life to come, which proved

His hope in death, is dimmed by thoughts of earth?
No, through the night of sorrow, that bright star
Hath pointed to a home of peace afar.

Together we rejoiced in brighter years;

Sharing the self-same home, the self-same lot; Together we have mingled bitter tears:

To leave thee now, my mother, ask me not! Where'er thou wanderest, thither will I roam— Thy God shall be my God, thy home my home!

(Original.)

FAITH.

REV. W. H. BATHURST.

FAITH is the homage which we owe to God,
The soul's submission to its heavenly King;
Which makes us seek his smile, yet own his rod,
Dread his displeasure, yet his praises sing,
And to his throne our supplications bring:
It takes the Bible as his gift to man,

And drinks with joy of that refreshing spring,
Bows to its precepts, and admires the plan
Devised by heavenly love before the world began.

Faith pierces through the mists that hover here,
And sees the Almighty on his glorious throne;
Marks the bright throng that fills that higher sphere,
And seems to catch the soul-inspiring tone
Of the seraphic choir; when most alone

It is not lonely; God is near at hand,
Whom it delights to worship as its own;

While to its favoured view the angelic band

Shines forth, whom God appoints around his saints to stand.

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