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God is good! each perfumed flower,

The smiling fields, the dark green wood, The insect fluttering for an hour,

All things proclaim that “God is good." I hear it in the rushing wind;

The hills that have for ages stood, And clouds, with gold and silver lined,

All still repeat that “God is good." Each little rill which many a year

Has the same verdant course pursued; And every bird, in accents clear,

Join in the song that “God is good." The countless hosts of twinkling stars,

Which e'en the keenest sight elude, The rising sun each day declares,

In rays of light, that "God is good.” The restless main, with haughty roar,

Calms each wild wave and billow rude ; Retreats, submissive, from the shore,

And joins the chorus—“God is good.” The moon, that walks in brightness, says

That “God is good:” and man, endued With power to speak his Maker's praise,

Should still repeat that “God is good.”


O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,

And Olivet's brown steep,
Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,

And sees the world asleep;
All but the children of distress,

Of sorrow, grief, and careWhom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless : These leave the couch of restlessness,

To breathe the cool, calm air.

For those who shun the glare of day,

There's a composing power
That meets them, on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray

Of this religious hour.
'Tis a religious hour ;--for He

Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,


O, Holy Father, when the light

Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,

In trust and prayer like him.

LEVITICUS xxv. 8—13.

The trumpet's voice
The Sabbath of the jubilee announced ;
The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land
At once, in every city, echoing rings,
From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that, far within the desert's verge,
The crouching lion starts, and glares around.

Free is the bondman now; each one returns
To his inheritance. The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way. No hills are steep;
Smooth is each rugged path. His little ones
Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides
The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers.

At length, the hill from which a farewell look,
And still another parting look, he cast
On his paternal vale, appears in view.
The summit gained, throbs hard his heart, with joy
And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more.
Instant his eager eye darts to the roof
Where first he saw the light. His youngest born
He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says, “ There my fathers lived, and there they sleep."

Onward he wends: near and more near he draws How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook!

The sunbeam, slanting through the cedar grove,
How lovely, and how mild ! but lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first;—and dear the fig-tree shade,
In which, on Sabbath eve, his father told
Of Israel, from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desert to the promised land.
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews;
And still at midnight hour he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,-
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy.


I love to see the falling leaf,

To watch the waning moon :
I love to cherish the belief

That all will change so soon.
I love to see the beauteous flowers

In bright succession pass;
As they would deck the fleeting hours,

And hide Time's ebbing glass.
I love the rushing wind to hear

Through the dismantled trees,
And shed the sad but silent tear

O’er joys that changed like these.

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I love to think the glorious earth

Is but a splendid tomb,

Whence man to an immortal birth

Shall rise in deathless bloom;

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That nothing in its bosom dies,

But all, in endless change,
Shall, in some brighter form, arise,

Or brighter region range.
On this fair couch then rest thy head

In peace, poor child of sorrow;
For He, the God of truth, has said,

“Thou shalt be changed to-morrow !”

Changed, as the saints and angels are,

To glories ever new ;
Corrupt shall incorruption wear,

And death shall life renew.



THERE's something sweet in scenes of gloom

To hearts of joy bereft ;
When hope has wither'd in its bloom,
When friends are going to the tomb,

Or in the tomb are left.

'Tis night-a lovely night :-and lo!

Like men in vision seen,
The Savior and his brethren go,
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow,

Led by heaven's lamp serene,-

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