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And when the storm has passed away,

In glory and in calm
May she sit down in the green of the day,

And sing her peaceful psalm.
Now, victory to our England !

And where'er she lifts her hand In Freedom's fight to rescue Right, God bless the dear old land!

-Gerald Massey

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

HIGHER, higher will we climb

Up to the mount of glory,
That our names may live through time

In our country's story;
Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge, Nature's wealth and learning's spoil

Won from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press

Through the path of duty,–
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty.
Minds are of celestial birth,-
Make we them a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit

In the mildest weather.
Oh! they wander wide who roam
For the joys of life from home.

- James Montgomery.

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Full of kindness tingling,

Soul is shut from soul,
When they might be mingling

In one kindred whole.
There's no dearth of kindness,

Though it be unspoken;
From the heart it buildeth

Rainbow smiles, in token
That there be none so lowly

But have some angel touch;
Yet, nursing loves unholy,

We live for self too much.
As the wild rose bloweth,

As runs the happy river,
Kindness freely floweth

In the heart for ever;
But if men will hanker

Ever for golden dust,
Kingliest hearts will canker,

Brightest spirits rust.
There's no dearth of kindness

In this world of ours,
Only in our blindness

We gather thorns for flowers.
Oh! cherish God's best giving

Falling from above;
Life were not worth living
Were it not for love.

-Gerald Massey.

THE CLOUDS.
I CANNOT look above, and see

Yon high-piled pillowy mass
Of evening clouds so swimmingly

In gold and purple pass,
And think not, Lord, how Thou wast seen

On Israel's desert way,
Before them in Thy shadowy screen

Pavilioned all the day

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Or of those robes of gorgeous hue

Which the Redeemer wore
When, ravished from His followers' view,

Aloft His Aight He bore,
When lifted as on mighty wing,

He curtained His ascent,
And, wrapped in clouds, went triumphing

Above the firmament.
Is it a trail of that same pall

Of many-coloured dyes,
That high above, o'ermantling all,

Hangs midway down the skies?
Or borders of those sweeping folds,

Which shall be all unfurled About the Saviour, when He holds

His judgment on the world? For in like manner as He went

(My soul, hast thou forgot ?) Shall be His terrible descent

When man expecteth not!
Strength, Son of Man, against that hour

Be to our spirits given,
When Thou shalt come again with power

Upon the clouds of heaven. -R. W. Crosswell.

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“WHAT is that, mother?” “The lark, my child:
The morn has but just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child. be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.”
“What is that, mother ?" “ The dove, my son;
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love."

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