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And the melodious choristers of Spring
Cease their clear notes, and fold the wearied

wing In quiet rest, and the dim twilight creeps With deepening shadow o'er the sky, and

weeps The falling dew o'er the departing day, The closing flowers, the sun's last gilded ray; Then, Christian, in thy solitude repair To the still chamber,--'tis the hour of prayer. Now breathe the hidden feelings of thy soul, Now breathe thy griefs and cares without

control Into thy gracious Saviour's tender breast And His deep love shall soothe thy heart to

rest.

MORNING PRAISE.

WAKE, slumbering Christian, ere the first faint

blush Of morning tinge the sky with crimson flush; Ere nature and her train with beauty rife Spring in a joyous bound to light and life, And the glad sky-lark as she soars on high, With liquid sweetness trills her melody. As the bold eagle with unflinching gaze, Steers his swift course towards the sun's brignt

rays, Plume thy soul's wings, and with a stedfast eye Mount up by faith to joys beyond the sky; Forget the things of earth, and upward move On holy pinions to thy home above, And let thy morning sacrifice ascend As fragrant incense to thy God and Friend, Till it descend upon thee in a shower Of heavenly blessings multiplied each hour.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

“PRECIOUS in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.”—Psalm cxvi. 15.

“Oh, loose this frame, this knot of man un tie,
That my free soul may use her wing
Which now is pinioned with mortality.”

HERBERT.

“I FEAR not death, for Christ has pass'd

Its terrors through ;
And following Him, I mount at last

With heaven in view.

These ebon arrows tipp'd with love

Affright me not:
By faith upborne, I fly above,

All else forgot.

Like the free bird which springs on high,

I leave my clay;
And upward soar with stedfast eye

To realms of day.

To see His face who died for me

Whose precious blood, Offered in love upon the tree,

Brought me to God.

Though feebly gasps my failing breath,
I feel no fear;
I tremble not, though this be death,

For Christ is near.

His arm of love supports my head

He whispers peace ;
His presence cheers my dying bed,

My sorrows cease.

Loosely these earthly fetters hang

One struggle more,

One quiv’ring gasp, one parting pang

And all is o'er.”

The soul has burst her bonds of clay,

And upward flies
To view the living splendour of a day

Too bright for mortal eyes.

A CHRISTIAN WOMAN.

“WHILE they behold your chaste conversation, coupled with fear.

“Whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel :

“But let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price.”—1 Peter iii. 2, 3, 4.

Meek is her lowly mien—the loving grace
Of Christ, her God and Saviour, we can trace;

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