Till JESUS gives the portion
Those blessed souls to fill,
The insatiate, yet satisfied,

The full, yet craving still.

"SAINT."

Marriott.

A SAINT! oh, would that I could claim
The privileged, the honoured name,
And confidently take my stand,
Though lowest, in the saintly band!

Would, though it were in scorn applied,
That term the test of truth could bide!
Like kindly salutations given,
In mockery, to the King of heaven.

A saint! and what imports the name
Thus bandied in derision's game?
66 Holy and separate from sin;
"To good, nay, even to God, akin."

Is such the meaning of a name,

From which a Christian shrinks with shame ?

Yes, dazzled with the glorious sight,

He owns his crown is all too bright.

And ill might son of Adam dare
Alone such honour's weight to bear;
But fearlessly he takes the load,
United to the Son of God.

A saint! oh, give me but some sign,
Some seal to prove the title mine,

And warmer thanks thou shalt command,
Than bringing kingdoms in thy hand.

How shall the name of saints be prized,
Though now neglected and despised,
When truth shall witness to the word,
That none but "saints shall see the Lord."

THE SABBATH MORN.

Cunningham.

DEAR is the hallowed morn to me,

When village bells awake the day; And by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away,

And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord!
To feel devotion's soothing power,
And catch the manna of thy Word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells, and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;

That holy, heavenly, melody,
The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often prayed,

And still the anxious tear would fall, But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn,

The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms,
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.

THE CORNISH BEARER'S CHANT.

Rev. R. S. Bawker.

"SING from the chamber to the grave!"
Thus did the Dead Man say-

"A sound of melody I crave

Upon my burial-day.

"Bring forth some tuneful instrument,

And let your voices rise

My spirit listen'd as it went

To music of the skies.

"Sing sweetly as you travel on,
And keep the funeral slow :
The angels sing where I am gone,
And you should sing below.

"Sing from the threshold to the porch,

Until you hear the bell;

And sing you loudly in the church

The Psalms I love so well.

"Then bear me gently to my grave;
And as you pass along,
Remember, 'twas my wish to have
A pleasant funeral song.

"So earth to earth, and dust to dust;
And though my flesh decay,
My soul shall sing among the just
Until the judgment-day."

"I WILL PRAISE THE LORD." Addison.

WHEN all thy mercies, O my God!
My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.

When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew'd my face;

And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Reviv'd my soul with grace.

Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Hath made my cup run o'er,
And in a kind and faithful friend,
Hath doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ,

Nor is the least a cheerful heart
That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I'll pursue;
And after death in distant worlds
The glorious theme renew.

When nature falls, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.

Through all eternity, to thee,

A joyful song I'll raise ;

For O, eternity alone

Can utter all thy praise.