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Seeking to do His will, to know His love, Longing to dwell, to reign with Him above; So shall His Spirit's unction breathe on thee, And fill thy soul with heavenly sanctity.

TO A SLUMBERING CHRISTIAN.

Ye are all the children of light, and the children of the day: we are not of the night, nor of darkness. Therefore, let us not sleep, as do others, but let us watch and be sober.”—1 Thess. v. 5, 6.

FOND, busy dreamer, cease to weave

A web of fancied joy,
Nor o'er its fragile texture grieve,

'Tis but an empty toy.

This world can have no rest for thee,

No happiness below;
Life is a sad reality

Of trouble, care, and woe.

Say, can the fighting soldier sleep

Upon the battle-field?
Or, 'midst the din of combat, keep
His slumbering eyelids sealed ?

Then cease to sorrow o'er the past,

The future leave with God; With thy loins girded, follow fast

The path which Christ hath trod.

Oh! watch and pray, thou ransomed one,

Nor lay thy weapons down,
Till fought the fight, the victory won,

Christ shall bestow the crown.

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“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.”—2 Sam. xxi. 10.

HUSH ! for a sound of dirge-like music floats
On the low breeze, while in its pealing notes
Lies the deep tenderness of woman's woe,
As mournfully those plaintive wailings flow.
See, on the summit of the tall rock's brow
Sits a lone female figure, bending low
Over the dead; her dark hair sweeps the

ground,
And casts a sable hue her form around.
No ravening beast by night, no bird by day,
Shall mark those mouldering bodies for their

prey;

For, hour by hour that lonely woman keeps
Her painful vigils there, she scarcely sleeps
By night or day, though o'er her sunken eye
Oft droops the heavy eyelid languidly.
And still she watches, while the moon's clear

beam
Shines o'er the vallies low, and running stream;
Borne by the breeze the liquid air along,
Roll the sad echoes of her mournful song.

“How are ye fallen, my bright-haired sons ! Cut off in your beauty, my blooming ones; Struck down, ere the glory of manhood's prime, As a green tree falls before its time.

The bird shall spring from her grassy nest. And the wild goat climb o'er the mountain's

breast; But your princely forms shall no more be seen Bounding along in the forest green.

Hushed are the voices that whispered low, When ye knelt in prayer at the sunset's glow, Or poured forth your praises, to heaven borne By the light-winged zeyhyr of early morn.

But now ye must pass to the silent tomb,
Withered away in your life's young bloom;
While I am left like a leafless tree,
Sad and alone in my misery."

So weeps that mourning mother o'er the slain, Through the long day, and in the evening's

wane; No comfort near, no voice to speak relief, And stem the torrent of her spirit's grief; But, Jesus, Thou art ever near, to heal The soul's deep wounds; Thy loving heart

can feel Each sorrowing mourner's woe, for Thou hast

been A man of sorrows in this world of sin.

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