The earnest given and promise sure,

The strength thro' weakness pledg'd secure; And leave that better hope so fair,

To be but like a passing ray,

Which, by some weary traveller's way, Plays on a gleaming sepulchre.

O blessed Lord! the thought of Thee,
When clouds our fairer visions mar;
When we are not where we would be,
And dearest friends are set afar;

The thought that 'tis Thy ruling will—
The thought that Thou art with us still,
Nearer than ear or eye can know,

Art with us still in life or death,

In blooming life or failing breath'Tis all of Heav'n we need below.

The gleams which come on Autumn's wood,
The Moon that from her silver boat
Looks out at noon in solitude-

Wing'd flocks in evening sky that floatThe Sun that springs from dying Night, And shoots her thro' with shafts of light, Into her breast again to fall

Soon shall we bid you all adieu,

Shapes ever fading, ever new, Which people Nature's earthly ball.

The winning guileless fantasies

Of little children round our feet;
The thoughts of age by suffering wise,
Listening to sounds by distance sweet;—
And things divine that hidden lie

In silver shrines of poesy;

Glad meetings after tearful woes,

Like dews of night with rays of morn,
And all the joys of suffering born,
To you in cloud my eyelids close,

To open on another scene

It is the dread reality,

To which all sights that yet have been,
The earth and sea, the stars and sky,
Are but a shadowy land of sleep,
Where day and night their sentry keep
Around that great eternal seat.

From out this mighty womb of things, Tried and found meet, by heavenly springs May we awake at Jesus' feet!

THE BANKS REVISITED.

The sound of wind on a dry barren moor—
A river stealing from a woodland nook
Around a winding pasture-on the shore
A solitary sea-bird-a lone book

In some wild cottage by the casement seen,
Saintly, and fill'd with lore of olden times-
A cataract whitening in the deep ravine
Around a rock-the distant evening chimes—

The watery gale, that in the window sings
His melancholy music,-choral sounds
Along cathedral roofs borne on sweet wings-
A wither'd tree on youth's enchanted grounds;-

Such things to me do make to overflow Fountains of recollection which lie deep; Wonderfully are we made, nor aught we know Of what we are, or shall be after sleep.

Fearfully are we made, launch'd to the wind
On shoreless sea of Being; from within
A thousand echoes call to us, behind

Voices we thought were gone, but sleep unseen;

Merciful Saviour! let me cling to Thee, oh! not
In the wild haunts of feeling, but in ways
Of self-abasement, which have not forgot
Washing Thy children's feet; our dull hearts raise

To seek Thee, all things speak of what is gone
Or going,-down the unheeding stream we sail,
And at each turn, behold some ruin lone
On summer slopes, or the autumnal vale,

In tearful recollection stretching far

Our eager hands, as evening sunbeams steal From fading landscapes, while the billowy car Bears on, and Ocean's sounds are 'neath the keel.

S