The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath The Holy City. JERUSALEM, my happy home! Name ever dear to me, When shall my labours have an end, When shall these eyes thy heaven-built walls And pearly gates behold? Thy bulwarks with salvation strong, And streets of shining gold? O when, thou city of my God, And sabbaths have no end? There happier bowers than Eden's, bloom, Nor sin nor sorrow know: Blest seats! through rude and stormy scenes, I onward press to you. Why should I shrink at pain and woe, Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there, Jerusalem! my happy home! My soul still pants for thee; Then shall my labours have an end, ANON. Thee will I Love, my Strength and THEE will I love, my strength and tower, Thee will I love with all my power, In darkness willingly I stray'd; I sought Thee, yet from Thee I roved; 'Tis through Thy light, and comes from Thee. I thank Thee, uncreated Sun, That Thy bright beams on me have shined; My foes, and heal'd my wounded mind; Thee will I love, my Joy, my Crown! FROM THE GERMAN. L The Christian's Death. IFT not thou the wailing voice, Up, where blessed saints rejoice, Ransom'd now, the spirit flieth; High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, Full the song of triumph swelleth ; Lift for her no voice of wailing! Pour not thou the bitter tear; But, as one who alway hopeth, Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,— They who die in CHRIST are bless'd,— And, through CHRIST, the crown secureth! GEORGE W. Doane. Lo The Genius of Worship. OVE! for the true heart's sacred love is its His glorious law of sympathy it labors to fulfil; So work out in its smaller sphere, with faithful diligence, The mighty, universal schemes of his omnipotence. Love! if ye can not learn to love your brother whom ye see, How shall ye grow in faith toward the unseen Deity? A true heart's love is worship. Indirectly it is praise, And prayer: for piety is not to cultivate one phase Of this anomalous being, with its wide capacityIts vast illimitable range of power and fantasy: The length, the breadth, the height, the depth, of this which we call man, God hath made this to worship him, as nothing narrow can: Universality of gifts upon one creature shed, And to the Benefactor's praise shall all save one be dead? Mind, soul, heart, strength, all else of good, of rich and beautiful, Lavished upon the human frame, yet every sense be dull Save one! one only live to him of all this glorious tower ?— Forbid it, Honor, Truth! No! work is piety of power; Genius is piety of mind; Love piety of heart; Religion piety of soul. It will not serve to part These elements of worship, and then blasphemously give The mutilated corpse to Him through whom the whole must live. ELISE JUSTINE BAYARD. |