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Yet look on—the crystal city
Stands on yon celestial shore I
There are crowns and thrones of glory,
. There the living waters glide,
There the just in shining raiment,
Wander by Emmanuel's side.

Linger not—the stream is narrow,
Though its cold dark waters rise;
He who passed the flood before thee.
Guides thy path to yonder skies:
Hark! the sound of Angels hymning,
Rolls harmonious o'er thine ear;
See! the walls and golden portals
Through the mist of death appear.

Soul adieu—this gloomy sojourn .

Holds thy captive feet no more;

Flesh is dropt, and sin forsaken,

Soitow done, and weeping o'er;

Thro' the tears thy friends are shedding,

Smiles of hope serenely shine;

Not a friend remains behind thee,

But would change his lot for thine.

Edmeston. PRAYER.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,

Unuttered or expressed; The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,

The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech

That infant lips can try: Prayer the sublimest strains that reach

The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death;
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;

While Angels in their songs rejoice,
And say, ' Behold, he prays I*

The saints in prayer appear as one

In word, and deed,, and mind,
When with the Father and his Son

Their fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone,

The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus on the eternal throne

For sinners intercedes.

O thou by whom we come to God,

The Life, the Truth, the Way;
The path of prayer thyself hath trode;

Lord teach us haw to pray.

Montgomery.

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

Pale and cold is the cheek that my kisses oft pressed,
And quenched is the beam of that bright sparkling eye;

k

For the soul, which its innocent glances confessed,
Has flown to its God and its Father on high.

i

No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make,

In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear;

If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake!

No more the gay smiles that those features displayed,
Shall transiently light up their own mirth in mine;

Yet, though these, and much more, be now covered in
shade,
I must not, I cannot, and dare not repine.

However enchantingly flattering and fair,

Were the hopes, that for thee, I had ventured to build, Can a frail, finite mortal presume to declare

That the future those hopes would have ever fulfilled?

In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure
The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace:

Hadst thou lived, would thy own have been equally pure,
And guileless, and happy, in age's increase?

Temptation, or sooner or later, had found thee;
Perhaps had seduced thee from pathways of light;

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'Till the dark clouds of vice, gathering gloomily round thee, Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night.

But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul,

While the heart yet was pangless, and true, and un-
stained;

Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole,
What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gained!

Like a dew-drop, kissed off by the sun's morning beam,
A brief, but a beauteous existence was given;

Thy soul seemed to come down to earth, in a dream,
And only to wake, when ascended to heaven!

Barton.

THE HOUR OF DISTRESS.

i

O 'tis not while the fairy-breeze fans the green ocean,
That the safety and strength of the bark can be shewn;

And 'tis not in prosperity's hour the devotion,
The fervour and truth of a friend can be known.

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