The unwearied sun,from day to day, Soon as the evening shades prevail, Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all "The hand that made us is divine!" JOSEPH ADDISON. Son-dayes. RIGHT shadows of true rest! some shoots of blisse: BRIG Heaven once a week: The next world's gladnesse prepossesst in this ; A day to seek: Eternity in time: the steps by which We climb above all ages: lamps that light THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE The pulleys unto headlong man: time's bower; Transplanted Paradise: God's walking houre: The creature's jubilee; God's parbe with dust: 361 Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh and flowres ; Angels descending; the returns of trust; A gleam of glory after six-days-showres! The Churche's love-feasts: time's prerogative, Deducted from the whole: the combs and hive, The milky-way chalkt out with suns; a clue, That guides through erring homes; and in full story, A taste of heaven on earth: the pledge and cue Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory. HENRY VAUGHAN. The Spiritual Temple. ["And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither; so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building."—1 KINGS, vi. 7. See also chap. v. 7-18.] A ND whence, then, came these goodly stones 't was The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days; 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 polished. perfected, complete, each fitted to its place, For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base, They bore them o'er the waves that rolled 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; 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. THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE. 363 Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle, meek; See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened 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 sealed 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 looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured,— What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured! But marked 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 designed 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, Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more. J. T. POOR Soul and Body. A SONNET. soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Foiled by those r hel powers that thee array, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine, to aggravate thy store! By terms divine in selling hours of dross! Within be fed, without be rich no more! So shalt thou feed on death that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE The Lord the Good Shepherd. HE Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know; Ti feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest; He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow, Through the valley and shadow of death though I stray, In the midst of affliction my table is spread; O! what shall I ask of thy providence more? |