Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him ; Hide his pale features with the sable pall; Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him, Widowed and childless, she has lost her all. Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping? Change then, O sad one, grief to exultation; EPIPHANY. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining, Angels adore Him in slumber reclining Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean; Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gold would his favor secure ; Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. MISSIONS. FROM Greenland's icy mountains, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile : In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we, whose souls are lighted Waft, waft ye winds, His story, you, ye waters, roll, BERNARD BARTON, A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, is the author of numerous poems, marked alike by sweetness of versification, and tender and Christian feeling. A collection of Bernard Barton's poems has recently been published, under the title of "Household Verses." "In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth."-Ps. xc. 6. I WALKED the fields at morning's prime, The grass was ripe for mowing; The skylark sang his matin chime, "And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy, Deems life's inheritance is joy- I wandered forth at noon :-Alas! And thus, I thought with many a sigh, Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed, While every breeze that round me played, The perfumed air, the hush of eve, O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve, For thus "the actions of the just," When memory hath enshrined them, E'en from the dark and silent dust Their odor leave behind them. THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been, On the day of its first dedication, When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen On high, o'er the ark's holy station; When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled, Though awfully grand was thy majesty then; And by whom was that ritual forever repealed To enter the Oracle, where is revealed, Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven. Who, having once entered, hath shown us the way, Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, This, this is the worship the Saviour made known, By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone, With the stillness of noontide around Him. How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught, "Woman! believe me, the hour is near, When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, Will neither be worshipped exclusively here, Nor yet at the altar of Salem. For God is a spirit! and they who aright Would perform the pure worship He loveth, In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth." THE POOL OF BETHESDA. AROUND Bethesda's healing wave, Waiting to hear the rustling wing Among them there was one whose eye Whose heart had often heaved the sigh, No power had he; no friendly aid To him its timely succor brought; Another won the boon he sought;— " |