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which self finds no part. In praise we go out of ourselves, and think only of Him to whom we offer it. It is the most purely disinterested of all services. It is gratitude without solicitation, acknow ledgement without petition. Prayer is the over flowing expression of our wants, praise of our affections. Prayer is the language of the destitute, praise of the redeemed sinner. If the angelic spirits offer their praises exempt from our mixture of infirmity or alloy, yet we have a motive for gratitude, unknown even to the angels. They are unfallen beings; they cannot say as we 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us.'Prayer is prospective. Praise takes in, in its wide range, enjoyment of present, remembrance of past, and anticipation of future blessings. Prayer points the only way to heaven, ' praise is already there.' H. MORE.



THUS, likewise, in private personal correctings, let us learn to behave ourselves meekly and humbly, as the children of so great and good a Father; whatsoever He inflicts, not to murmur, nor entertain a fretful thought of it. Besides the undutifulness, and unseemliness of it, how vain is it! What gain we by struggling and casting up our hand to cast off the rod, but the more lashes? Our only way is, to kneel and fold under His hands, and kiss His rod, and even while He is smiting us, to be blessing Him, sending up confessions of His righteousness, and goodness, and faithfulness, only entreating for the turning away of his wrath, though it should be with the continuing of our

affliction. That is here the style of the Prophet's prayer, Correct me, O Lord, but not in anger. And according to this suit, even where troubles are chastisements for sin, yet a child of God may find much sweetness, reading much of God's love in so dealing with him, in not suffering him to grow wanton and forget Him, as, in much ease, even His own children sometimes do. And as they may find much of God's love to them in sharp corrections, they may raise and act much of their love to Him in often-repeated resignments and submissions of themselves, and ready consent. ing to, yea, rejoicing in His good pleasure, even in those things which to their flesh and sense are most unpleasant.



"REMEMBRANCE of the dead revives
The slain of time, at will,

Those who were lovely in their lives,
In death are lovelier still.

"Unburthen'd with infirmity,
Unplagued like mortal men,
Oh! with what pure delight we see
The heart's old friends again!

"Not as they sunk into the tomb, With sickness-wasted powers, But in the beauty and the bloom

Of their best days, and ours.

"The troubles of departed years
Bring joys unknown before;
And soul-refreshing are the tears
O'er wounds that bleed no more.

"Lightning may blast, but thunder-showers
Earth's ravaged face renew,
With nectar fill the cups of flowers,
And hang the thorns with dew.

**Remembrance of the dead is sweet;
Yet how imperfect this,
Unless past, present, future meet,
A threefold cord of bliss!

"Companions of our youth, our age,
With whom through life we walked,
And, in our house of pilgrimage,
Of home beyond it talked.

"Grief on their urn may fix her eyes,
They spring not from the ground;
Love may invoke them from the skies,
There is no voice nor sound.

"Fond memory marks them as they were, Stars in our horoscope;

But soon to see them as they are,
That is our dearest hope.

"Not through the darkness of the night,
To waking thoughts conceal'd,
But in the uncreated light
Of Deity reveal'd.

They cannot come to us, but we
Ere long to them may go;
That glimpse of immortality
Is heaven begun below."


THOUGHTS Of Heaven! they come when low
The summer-eve's breeze doth faintly blow:
When the mighty sea shines clear, unstirred
By the wavering tide, or the dipping bird:
They come in the rush of the surging storm,
When the blackening waves rear their giant form,
When o'er the dark rocks curl the breakers white,
And the terrible lightnings rend the night-
When the noble ship hath vainly striven
With the tempest's might, come thoughts of

They come where man doth not intrude,
In the untracked forest's solitude;
In the stillness of the gray rocks' height,
Whence the lonely eagle takes his flight;
On peaks, where lie the eternal snows;
In the sun-bright isle, mid its rich repose;
In the healthy glen, by the dark, clear lake,
Where the fair swan sails from her silent brake;
Where nature reigns in her deepest rest,
Pure thoughts of Heaven come unrepress'd.

They come as we gaze on the midnight sky,
When the star-gemmed vault looks dark and high,
And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime,
Soars from the dim world and the bounds of time;
Till the mental eye becomes unsealed,
And the mystery of being in light revealed;
They rise in the Gothic chapel dim,
When slowly bursts forth the holy hymn,
And the organ's rich tones swell full and high,
Till the roof peals back the melody.


Thoughts of Heaven! from his joy beguiled,
They come to the bright-eyed, artless child;
To the man of age in his dim decay,
Bringing hope his youth has not borne away;
To the woe-smit soul in its dark distress,
As flowers spring up in the wilderness;
And in silent chambers of the dead,

Where the mourner goes with soundless tread;
For as the day-beams freely fall,
Pure thoughts of Heaven are sent to all.


"Take up thy Cross and follow me."

TURN from this world;—'t is not thy home!
From wave to wave why wilt thou roam-
Like yon small lovely speck of foam

On ocean's ever-heaving breast?
If toss'd by every storm that blows,
Brighten'd by every gleam that glows,
And melted by each tear that flows,
Canst thou find rest?

Could wealth to thee true joy impart ?
Can giddy pleasure charm thy heart?
Or splendour soothe its secret smart-
Or heal its pain?

Could taste-could feelings most refined-
Can all the stores of art combined-
E'en 'midst the favour'd sons of mind
Thou 'st sought in vain?

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