LORD'S DAYS. Henry Maughan, 1695. BRIGHT shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss ; The next world's gladness prepossessed in this; Eternity in time; the steps by which We climb above all ages; lamps that light Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich And full redemption of the whole week's flight; Transplanted paradise; God's walking hour, Angels descending; the return of trust; And interest Deducted from the whole: the combs, and hive, And home of rest; The milky way chalk'd out with suns, a clue That guides through erring hours; and in full story A taste of heaven on earth; the pledge and cue THE BIBLE OUR ONLY TRUE GUIDE. Montgomery. WHAT is the world?—a wildering maze, All broad, and winding, and aslope, Millions of pilgrims throng those roads, One only path, that never bends, Is there no Guide to show that path ? The Bible need not stray; But he who hath, and will not give GRACE BEFORE SLEEP. GIVER of sleep, unsleeping Lord, Now am I to my chamber come, Where Flesh and Heart each seek their home; Thy nightly gift again I crave, My wearied frame repose would have; My heart, the promise of thy.word. Just ready to depart, the Day Then soon the Night, immense with stars, As when thou first didst light their fires, Not spotless thy command have kept; Here now I am: the house is fast. Ask it I will: I cannot rest, RELIGION THE UNFADING FLOWER. Bishop Beber. By cool Siloam's shady rill, How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose! Lo! such the child whose early feet Is upward drawn to God. By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age, Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, Oh Thou, whose infant feet were found Whose years, with changeless virtues crowned, Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us all thine own. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. WHITE-BUD! that in meek beauty so dost lean Thy cloistered cheek as pale as moonlit snow, Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, An eremite beneath the mountain's brow. White-bud! thou'rt emblem of a lovetide thing,— PARADISE. Ren. B. Bonar. THROUGH these well guarded gates No sickness wastes, nor once intrudes, The tossings of the night, The frettings of the day, All end, and like a cloud of dawn Foot-sore and worn thou art, Breathless with toil and fight |