"Show us the Father."

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill
Casts off its icy chains and leaps away ?
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill?
In song of birds at break of summer's day?
Or in the ocean's everlasting roar,

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Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore ?

Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn,

When vexing cares in tranquil slumber restWhen in the heart the holy thought is born,

And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast,

Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there?

Show us the Father! If ye fail to trace

His chariot where the stars majestic roll, His pencil 'mid earth's loveliness and grace, His presence in the sabbath of the soul, How can you see Him till the day of dread,

When to assembled worlds the book of doom is

read?

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

AY why should friendship weep for those
Who safe arrived on Canaan's shore?
Released from all their hurtful foes,
They are not lost, but gone before.

How many painful days on earth
Their fainting spirits numbered o'er!
Now they enjoy a heavenly birth;
They are not lost, but gone before.

Dear is the spot where Christians sleep,
And sweet the strain which angels pour:

O why should we in anguish weep;
They are not lost, but gone before.

Secure from every mortal care,

By sin and sorrow vexed no more, Eternal happiness they share,

They are not lost, but gone before.

On Jordan's banks whene'er we come,
And hear the swelling waters roar,
Saviour, convey us safely home,
gone before.

To friends not lost, but

"O that I had Wings like a Dove!" 89

"O THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE!"

H, could the soul, oppressed with care,
Shake off her deadly load;

Spring upward to the realms of air,
And seek a new abode,

Where misery's gnawing pang should cease,
And hope for ever dwell with peace!

Methinks 'twere sweet to soar on high,
And feel the heart grow light;
To see the gloomy cloud pass by,
And all around look bright;

To leave behind the weight of pain,
And sorrow, with her fearful train.

How would the spirit joy to look
On all she left below,

And, as her parting glance she took,

With hope triumphant glow;
And think that all her toils were o'er,
When she had gained that peaceful shore!

God of eternity! from Thee

This feeble being came;

Thine eye its hidden springs can see;
Thou know'st its inmost frame;
And in its ways and wanderings still,
'Tis but the creature of Thy will.

Oh! if o'er all its varying fate

Thy hand supreme presides,
And, tempering affliction's weight,
The stroke in mercy guides;
With meek submission let me bend,
And Thy unseen design attend.

RESIGNATION.

HERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours

Amid these earthly damps;

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers,

May be heaven's distant lamps.

Resignation.

There is no death! what seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portals we call Death.

She is not dead-the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ Himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bonds which nature gives;

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Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;

For when, with raptures wild,

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child,—

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.