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Yea! once Immanuel's orphan'd cry

His universe hath shaken

It went up, single, echoless,
"My God, I am forsaken!"

It went up from the Holy's lips
Amid his lost creation,

That of the lost, no son should use

Those words of desolation;

That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope,
Should mar not hope's fruition;

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see
His rapture in a vision!

THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA.

SIR EDWARD DENNY.

SWEET was the hour, O Lord! to thee
At Sychar's lonely well,

When a poor outcast heard thee there
Thy great salvation tell.

Thither she came e-but oh! her heart,
All fill'd with earthly care,

Dreamt not of thee, nor thought to find

The Hope of Israel there.

Lord! 'twas thy power unseen that drew The stray one to that place,

In solitude to learn of thee

The secrets of thy grace.

There Jacob's erring daughter found
Those streams unknown before-

The water-brooks of life that make

The weary thirst no more.

And, Lord! to us as vile as she,

Thy gracious lips have told That mystery of love reveal'd At Jacob's well of old.

In spirit, Lord! we've sat with thee
Beside the springing well

Of life and peace, and heard thee there
Its healing virtues tell.

Dead to the world, we dream no more
Of earthly pleasures now;
Our deep, divine, unfailing spring
Of grace and glory-Thou!

No hope or rest in aught beside,
No beauty, Lord! we see,

But like Samaria's daughter, seek

And find our all in Thee.

NOVEMBER.

REV. H. F. LYTE.

THE autumn wind is moaning low the requiem of the year; The days are growing short again, the fields forlorn and

sere;

The sunny sky is waxing dim, and chill the hazy air, And tossing trees before the breeze are turning brown and bare.

All nature and her children now prepare for rougher days: The squirrel makes his winter-bed and hazel hoard purveys, The sunny swallow spreads his wing to seek a brighter sky, And boding owl, with nightly howl, says cloud and storm are nigh.

No more 'tis sweet to walk abroad among the evening dews: The flowers have fled from every path with all their scents and hues ;

The joyous bird no more is heard, save where his slender

song

The robin drops, as meek he hops the wither'd leaves

among.

Those wither'd leaves, that slender song, a solemn truth

convey

In Wisdom's ear they speak aloud of frailty and decay: They say that man's apportion'd year shall have its winter

too,

Shall rise and shine, and then decline, as all around him do.

They tell him all he has on earth, his brightest, dearest

things,

His loves and friendships, joys and hopes, have all their falls and springs

A wave upon a moonlit sea, a leaf before the blast,

A summer flower, an April shower, that gleams and hurries

past.

And be it so! I know it well: myself and all that's mine
Must roll on with the rolling year, and ripen to decline.
I do not shun the solemn truth-to him it is not drear,
Whose hopes can rise above the skies, and see a Saviour

near.

It only makes him feel with joy this earth is not his home; It sends him on from present ills to brighter hours to come; It bids him take with thankful heart whate'er his God may

send,

Content to go through weal or wo to glory in the end.

Then murmur on, ye wintry winds! remind me of my doom; Ye lengthen'd nights! still image forth the darkness of the

tomb.

Eternal summer lights the heart where Jesus deigns to shine: I mourn no loss, I shun no cross, so Thou, O Lord! art mine.

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