RAISING THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. "And when Jesus came into the ruler's house, and saw the minstrels and the people making a noise, "He said unto them "Give place, for the maid is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed Him to scorn. "But when the people were put forth, he went in, and took her by the hand, and the maid arose."-Matt. ix. 23, 24, 25. TREAD Softly-whisper low,-for death is here; His icy presence chills the darkened room; That pale and lifeless form, that waiting bier, Speak of the one great bourne, the silent tomb. Gaze on these thrilling tokens of decay, And ponder-for a soul has passed away. Closed the veined eyelids, o'er the marble cheek Droop the long lashes dark, a silken fringe Of gleaming beauty; on the forehead meek, Steals the death palor, but a rose-leaf tinge Still lingers on the lips, though death has set His impress there, to reign triumphant yet. A few short months, and she was gaily springing, O'er the green hills, that, like an emerald zone, Begirt Jerusalem, her young voice ringing As silvery music in its joyous tone;— But she is dead, her sunny smile departed, Leaving her childless parents broken hearted. Bright was their pleasant home, while yet she strayed Like a young fawn among the trees and flowers, By the clear brook, or through the forest glade, The light, the sunbeam of those happy hours; But ruthless death has stolen from the bower, A Summer rose, Judea's fairest flower. But hold strong victor, for a stronger still, Shall burst the iron fetters thou hast cast Around thy victim, His almighty will Restrains thee, and the sleep of death is past. The silent pulse rebounds-the lifeless clay Thrills to the wakening touch of Deity. THE FATHER'S HAND. "For whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth. If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the Father chasteneth not?" Heb. xii. 6, 7. OH! welcome scourge, which in a Father's hand Dost lose thy keenness, once again I feel Thy chastening stroke, nor can my heart withstand These gentle cords of love, that smite to heal; That wound, to bring my wandering spirit home,- Home to a Saviour's side, whene'er I roam. Faint not, my soul! but plume thy drooping wing, And soar above the fleeting joys of earth; Strengthened by faith and hope, to Jesus cling Sing of His love who left a home of glory Who on the tree, with visage marr'd and gory, Sing of the eye that watches o'er thy going, The hand that gently guides thy erring feet, The gracious heart, whose love for ever flowing, Pours forth its streams of consolation sweet. That love which never changes, never tires, But fully satisfies thy best desires. Sing of the glory that awaits thy soul When the short hour of pilgrimage is o'er; |