And once when we could not bear to see
Her sufferings, and turn'd the head,
"His rod and his staff they comfort me,"
The virgin martyr said.

'Twas near the setting of the sun,

And her voice wax'd faint and low,

And we knew that her race was well nigh run, And her time drew near to go.

We could almost deem the clouds that roll'd
Round the ruddy sun's decline,
To be chariots of fire and horses of gold,
On the steep of Mount Aventine.
Yea, guardian angels bent their way
From their own sky's cloudless blue,

And a triumph more glorious was thine to-day Than ever the Cæsar knew.

We lay thee here in the narrow cell,
Where thy friends and brethren sleep,
And we carve the palm thy lot to tell,
And we do not dare to weep;
Hopefully wait we God's holy time,
That shall call us to thy rest;

Till then, we dwell in an alien clime,
While thou art in Abraham's breast.

CHURCH MUSIC.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

AGAIN! oh send those Anthem notes again
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky,
Bid the old tombs give echoes to the strain,
The banners tremble as with victory.

Sing them once more, they waft my soul away,
High where no shadow of the past is thrown;
No earthly passion through th' exulting lay
Breathes mournfully one haunting undertone.
All is of heaven,-yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the quick tears unbidden from their source?

E'en while the waves of that strong harmony
Sweep with my spirit on their sounding course.

Wherefore must rapture its full tide reveal,
Thus by the signs betokening sorrow's power?
Oh! is it not that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

MEDITATION.

By JOHN NORRIS, born in 1657.

Ir must be done, my soul, but 'tis a strange,
A dismal and mysterious change,

When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay,
And to an unknown somewhere wing away;
When time shall be eternity, and thou

Shalt be thou knows't not what, and live thou knows't not how.

Amazing state! no wonder that we dread

To think of death or view the dead.
Thou'rt all wrapt up in clouds, as if to thee
Our very knowledge had antipathy;
Death could not a more sad retinue find-
Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

By JAMES MONTGOMERY.

I ASK'D the Heavens ;-"What foe to God hath done
This unexampled deed?"-The Heavens exclaim,
"Twas MAN; and we in horror snatch'd the sun
From such a spectacle of sin and shame!”

I ask'd the Sea;-the sea in fury boil'd,

And answer'd with his voice of storms,-" "Twas MAN;
My waves in panic at his crime recoil'd,

Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran."

I ask'd the Earth ;-the earth replied aghast,
"'Twas MAN; and such strange pangs my bosom rent,
That still I groan and shudder at the past."
To Man, gay, smiling, thoughtless man, I went,
And ask'd him next;-. -He turn'd a scornful eye,
Shook his proud head, and deign'd me no reply!

THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE.

AND whither came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise,

The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days;
In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendour bright,
Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of
night?

From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought,

In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains

wrought;

There rung the hammer's heavy stroke, among the echoing

rocks,

There chased the chisel's keen sharp edge, the rude unshapen blocks.

Thence polish'd, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place,
For lofty coping, massive wall, or rude imbedded base,
They bore them o'er the waves that roll'd their billowy
swell between

The shores of Tyre's imperial pride, and Judah's hills of green.

With gradual toil the work went on through days and months and years,

Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen

tears;

And thus in majesty sublime, and noiseless pomp it rose,
Fit dwelling for the God of peace, a temple of repose.

Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply;
Our God himself a temple builds, eternal and on high,

Of souls renew'd; their Zion there, that world of light and

bliss;

Their Lebanon the place of toil,-of previous moulding this. From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews

The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth Him to choose ; Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine, Moulded beneath His patient Hand in purity divine.

Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek; See floods of unaccustom'd tears gush down the harden'd cheek;

Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol fond;

Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious tender bond.

Behold he prays, whose lips were seal'd in silent scorn

before;

Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door; Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past, Oh, for more mouldings of the Hand that works a change so vast.

Ye look'd on me a well wrought stone, a saint of God matured,

What chisellings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured;

But mark'd ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it

gave,

Ere Jesus bore his servant home across the darksome wave?

Home to the place His grace design'd that chosen soul to

fill;

In the bright temple of the saved upon His holy hill;

Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines

above,

Whose stones shall never be displaced, set in redeeming love.

Lord! chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus Thine image on us stamp, transport us to the shore, Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more.

PALESTINE.

By JOHN G. WHITTIER, one of the living poets of America.
BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallow'd of song,
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng;
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea,
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee!

With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore
Where pilgrim and prophet have linger'd before;
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.

Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear
Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear;

Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down,
And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.

Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green,
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene;
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!

Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong,
Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along;

Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain,
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.

There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came,
And Napthali's stag, with his eye-balls of flame,
And the chariots of Jabin roll'd harmlessly on,
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son!

There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang,
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side,
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.

Lo! Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen,
With the mountains around, and the valleys between;
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there
The songs of the angels rose sweet on the air.

And Bethany's palm trees in beauty still throw
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below;