THE HOME OF THE SOUL.

F. 5. Keq.

Oн, where shall the soul find relief from its woes,
A shelter of safety, a home of repose ?

Can earth's highest summit or deepest hid vale
Give a refuge no sorrow nor sin can assail ?
No, no! there's no home!

There's no home on earth, the soul has no home!

Shall it leave the low earth, and soar to the sky,
And seek for a rest in the mansions on high?

In the bright realms of bliss shall a dwelling be given
And the soul find a home in the glory of heaven?
Yes, yes! there's a home!

There's a home in high heaven, the soul has a home.

Oh! holy and sweet its rest shall be there ;
Free for ever from sin, and sorrow, and care;
And the loud hallelujahs of angels shall rise
To welcome the soul to its home in the skies;
Home, home! home of the soul!

The bosom of God is the home of the soul!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Cymns for the Week.

My God, is any hour so sweet,

From blush of morn to evening star,
As that which calls me to thy feet-
The hour of prayer!

Blest be that tranquil hour of morn, And blest that hour of solemn eve, When on the wings of prayer upborneThe world I leave!

For then a day-spring shines on me,
Brighter than morn's ethereal glow;
And richer dews descend from thee,
Than earth can know!

Then is my strength by thee renew'd;
Then are my sins by thee forgiven;
Then dost thou cheer my solitude

With hopes of heav'n.

Words cannot tell what blest relief,
Here for my every want I find!
What strength for warfare, balm for grief!
What peace of mind!

Hush'd is each doubt-gone every fear-
My spirit seems in heaven to stay ;
And e'en the penitential tear

Is wiped away!

Oh! till I reach yon peaceful shore,
No privilege so dear shall be,
As thus my inmost soul to pour,
In prayer to Thee!

THE CONVENIENT SEASON.

Mrs. Sigourney.

ALONE he sat, and wept.-That very night
The Ambassador of God, with earnest zeal
Of eloquence, had warn'd him to repent,
And, like the Roman at Drusilla's side,
Hearing the truth, he trembled.
wrought

Conscience

And sin allur'd. The struggle shook him sore.
The dim lamp wan'd, the hour of midnight toll'd,
Prayer sought for entrance-but the heart had clos'd
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch,
And bade the spirit of his God depart.

--But there was war within him, and he sigh'd,
"Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One!
Return when youth is past, and make my soul
For ever thine."

With kindling brow he trod
The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice
And beauty's smile his fluttering pulses woke.
To love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle-wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged wealth indulg'd him—till the world
Pronounced him happy.

Manhood's vigorous prime

Swell'd to his climax, and his busy days
And restless nights swept like a tide away;

When lo!-a message from the Crucified,

“Look unto me, and live." But care had twin'd
Strong tendrils round him—and its countless shoots,
Still striking earthward, like the Indian tree,
Barr'd out, with woven shades, the eye of Heaven.

-Twice warn'd he ponder'd:-then impatient spake
Of weariness, and haste and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of Heaven.

·God spake again, when Age had shed its snows Upon his temples, and his weary hand

Shrank from gold-gathering. But the rigid chain Of habit bound him, and he still implor'd

A more convenient season.

"See-my step

Is firm and free, my unquench'd eye delights
To view this pleasant world—and life with me
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness, I can better fit

For long eternity."

Disease came on,

And reason fled. The maniac strove with death,
Till darkness smote his eye-balls, and thick ice
Settled around his heart-strings. The poor clay
Lay vanquish'd and distorted. But the soul—
The soul whose promised season never came-
here was it?

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

Mrs. Sigoarneq.

DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dash'd it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip;-he touch'd the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wistful tenderness—a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone can wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids

For ever.

There had been a murmuring sound, With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set His seal of silence. But there beam'd a smile So fix'd and holy from that marble browDeath gazed, and left it there:-he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.

SOLICITUDE TRANSFERRED.

AND dost thou care for me, O Lord!
Who am so weak and vile ?

Can thy neglected love afford
Still an inviting smile?