Next year there was none but the rich man left,

Left alone in his pride and pain,

Who called on the stranger, like one bereft,
And sought through the land, in vain!

He came not he never was heard nor seen
Again; (so the story saith ;)

But, wherever his terrible smile hath been,
Men shuddered, and talked of-Death!

"LET US BUILD THREE

Berbert Knowles.

TABERNACLES."

"It is good for us to be here if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles: one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."

METHINKS it is good to be here :

MATT. xvii. 4.

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor ELIAS nor MOSES appear,

the gloom,

But the shadows of eve that encompass
The abode of the dead, and the pla of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no!

Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below,

In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no !—she forgets The charms which she wielded before

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of PrideThe trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas! they are all laid aside—

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain-
Who hid, in their turn have been hid-
The treasures are squander'd again—

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsil that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,— The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board:

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above,-

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,Not a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear,— Peace, Peace, is the watchword—the only one here.

Unto Death! to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow:

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to HOPE we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise:

The second to FAITH, which assures it fulfill'd,And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

THE BITTER CUP.

SAVIOUR, help me to sustain it.
Whatsoe'er thy will to me;
Hold the cup, if I must drain it,
Pleasant then the draught will be-
Health and cure therein receiving,
Why distrust a Father's care-
If not faithless, but believing,
Only mercy can be there.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

Byron.

THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green, That host, with their banners, at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest, when autumn hath blown, That host, on the morrow, lay wither'd and strown.

For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed on the face of the foe as he pass'd:
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.
And there lay the steed, with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride,
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
The tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Asshur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

"NOT AS I WILL, BUT AS THOU WILT."

Elliot.

My God, my Father, while I stray

Far from my home, on life's rough way,

O teach me from my heart to say-
Thy will be done!

If thou shouldst call me to resign
What most I prize-it ne'er was mine;
I only yield thee what was thine;
Thy will be done!

E'en if again I ne'er should see
The friend more dear than life to me,
Ere long we both shall be with thee;
Thy will be done!

Should pining sickness waste away
My life in premature decay,
My Father, still I strive to say—
Thy will be done!

If but my fainting heart be blest
With thy sweet Spirit for its guest,
My God, to thee I leave the rest;
Thy will be done!

Renew my will from day to day;
Blend it with thine, and take away
All that now makes it hard to say,
Thy will be done!