Oh 't is a blest companion-band,

They wind the vale, the summit mount; The well springs up at their command,

They drink, march on, but note the fount,Renewed by Heaven's most gracious rain,— Their panting followers to sustain !

Not one shall perish from those coasts!
All before Zion's God appear!

But who am I, O Lord of Hosts?

My prayer, Thou God of Bethel, hear!
Thou wilt: Messiah's face revealed
Secures Thy favour like a shield !

A thousand days are no mean share
Of life's amount of days on earth :
Each brings its duty, joy, and care,—
One, such a sacrifice is worth!
That day within Thy courts. I ask,
However menial be my task!

Father of lights, illume my ways!
Mine Ægis, still my head enfold!
Thy glory consummates Thy grace!
No proper good dost Thou withhold!
My walk be ever with the just,
And in Thee mine unwavering trust!

PSALM THE EIGHTY-SEVENTH.

BLEST Spectacle! Yon holy heights
Uprear no city of the world!

Therein are served no common rites,
Thence no mean ensign is unfurled!

City of God! The dwelling-place
In which His glory is enshrined !
Precinct of refuge and of grace,

Set ope to all of human kind!

The latch of the devoted home
He passes not, nor will despise,—
But to its altar-hearth doth come
To bless the household sacrifice.

But in the Progress of His State,
Far loftier portals He demands,—

And lo! He enters Zion's gate

And dwells in it, though made with hands.

O Church! Once feeble, small, and mean, What glorious things are told of thee! And, in prophetic light foreseen,

A world now crowds thy sanctuary.

They who once knew Thee,-could they hope That thou a listening world shouldst teach? Chaldean, Tyrian, Ethiop,

Men of each kindred, tribe, and speech?

Thou a new life dost spread around!

From stones dost sons and daughters call! With matron-honours art thou crowned! Thou art the mother of us all!

Thine is the renovating spell!
From soul to soul it multiplies!
A record none, like thine, can tell!
Thy strength the Highest fortifies!

Soon will, amidst the Last Account,
That sumless offspring be displayed:

And they shall bless the natal mount

Which swells and blooms when all things fade.

While at its base,-I cannot sing

Like the sweet choirs which crest that hill:

Yet do its sides with echoes ring,

And yield me each refreshing rill!

PSALM THE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH.

PARAPHRASE.

WHAT rivers cleave this waste forlorn?
Rivers of Weeping and of Death:
Along their dreary banks we mourn,—
A sigh each breath!

The willows bear our stringed shells

Which droop and murmur 'mong the reeds,
No purposed strain of sorrow swells,-
Our spirit bleeds!

The foe may o'er us proudly vaunt,
And impiously disdain our woe,—

No harp shall answer to his taunt,

Though tears must flow !

Nor can we find our own relief

In sweeping yon suspended lyres,—

In pensive thought, 'midst sobbing grief, Our song expires!

O Zion, ne'er art thou forgot!

Nor thou, Jerusalem, our home! Whate'er from memory we must blot ! Where'er we roam !

Our touch shall lose its chording art,
Our utterance praise no more employ,
When aught shall wean this broken heart
From its chief joy!

O Earth farewell! Thou doomed place,Our foeman's seat,-Thy judgments fall! Thy children perish! Vain Thou 'dst rase Our City's wall!

We'll sing again! Our bosom burns! Skill shall direct our new-strung hand,Earth's days are numbered! Now returns The Exile Band !

PSALM THE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SECOND.

In reciting this Psalm, Francis of Assissium expired: the version is accommodated to the scene.

Ан, 't is not now that I commence

To pour to heaven my suppliant cry:
But now my soul is parting hence,
O Lord! sustain and bid it fly:
Wilt Thou not still be its defence,
Who all my life wast ever nigh?

Long have I proved Thy gentle care,-
Each plaint of sorrow Thou hast heard,—
Each secret trouble I could bare

Before Thine eye: when inward stirred
My spirit's depth, when outward snare
Was set, my path was ne'er deterred.

Little I mourn to leave this scene,
Strange 't is to me, and I'm alone:
No refuge here my head can screen,
No pity meets my soul's deep moan:
Yet not unblest my lot has been,—

As refuge, portion, Thee I 've known!

But now I die,-with tenderest love

Mark my last prayer, my latest woe,—

Let not my tempters greatly move

My heart which trembles faint and low-
I'm free! I'm borne by saints above!

Praise, Praise! Thy heavenly bounties flow!