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"Pray without ceasing!"—pray

A little moment more,

And thou shalt find thy way

To heaven's eternal shore!

Then prayer shall end in praise,
Want be a word unknown,

And thou shalt blend thy lays

With angels round the Throne!

Praise without ceasing then thy work shall be

To Him who chose, and call'd, and ransom'd thee.

(Original.)

A MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY SONG TO HER

FIRST-BORN.

REV. THOMAS DALE.

BEAUTEOUS and most beloved!

The year that dawn'd upon thy birth

On rosy wings hath lightly moved,

And still thy healthful hue, thy buoyant mirth

Gladden thy mother's anxious heart :

Oh! couldst thou ever be what now thou art!

But vain the wish and wild!

The stroke of suffering or of wo

Must reach the mother through the child:

And thou, unconscious babe! thou too must know

The general doom-thou too must share

Man's common heritage of toil and care.

Dear as thou art, and dear

As to thy father's heart and mine

Thou ever must be, yet the tear

From which we cannot shield, may soon be thine;

And pain on that sweet open brow

May set a seal, though all is sportive now.

But oh! thou loveliest flower!

Though blasts may bruise thy gentle stem, Or winter's bleak ungenial shower

Weigh to the dust thy scarce expanding gem, Still is the root secure in earth,

Still lives the promise of a brighter birth.

Hence at thy natal hour,

'Tis not the anxious mother's

prayer

That far from thee may fall the shower,

The cloud sail o'er thee, and the tempest spare ;

Or that thy life may glide away,

Unmoved by cares, a cloudless summer day.

The path to heavenly light

Through darkness leads; a wreath divine

Succeeds the struggle and the strife.

Oh, may that light, sweet babe! that wreath be thine;

And to the mother's prayer be given

To hail her first-born child an heir of Heaven!

THE ANCHOR OF HOPE.

HEB. VI. 19, 20.

REV. T. GRINFIELD.

THAT hope be mine! that anchor of the soul,
Steadfast and sure, howe'er life's billows roll!
Which, grappling fast its unseen ground, doth lie
Deep in the ocean of eternity!

And binds us to that blest and boundless shore,
Where the great Captain,* landed safe before
Now waits to welcome home each wave-worn bark :
-Oh! be that hope my anchor, Heaven my mark!

Heb. ii 10

THE POOL OF BETHESDA.

BERNARD BARTON.

AROUND Bethesda's healing wave,
Waiting to hear the rustling wing,
Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave
Its virtues to that holy spring-
With earnest, fix'd solicitude,
Were seen the afflicted multitude.

Among them there was one, whose eye
Had often seen the waters stirr'd;
Whose heart had often heaved the sigh,
The bitter sigh, of hope deferr'd;
Beholding, while he suffer'd on,
The healing virtue given, and gone.

Νο

power had he; no friendly aid To him its timely succour brought; But, while his coming he delay'd,

Another won the boon he sought; Until the Saviour's love was shown, Which heal'd him by a word alone!

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