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And thrills through every part the taintless | That form'd them, and the beatific smile

whole :

The air, the soil, the rivers, fruits, and
flowers,

Instinct with immortality, and touch'd
With amaranthine freshness, by the hand

That ever beams around them. Every heart
Catches that smile; each eye reflects it; all,
In body and in spirit, sumless myriads,
Fill'd with empyreal vigour, fill'd with God,
And radiant in the Glory of the Lamb!

JOY OF HEAVEN ANTICIPATED.

E. C. KENT.

THERE is there is a joy, though time should bring
Each fleeting moment change upon his wing;
The fair, the fond, the cherish'd should depart,
Hope's visions soothe, or torture wring the heart:
O! 'mid this world of sorrowing and mirth,
There is a joy-it is not of the earth!

There is a joy-it is not in the breeze,
The fields, the flowers, the woodland harmonies,
The bright'ning beam of Summer's gladden'd day,
Or burst of splendor ere it fades away-

How beautifully fades! Then comes the night,
And heaven is filled with million gems of light.

There is a joy-it is not in the star

Trembling in beauty o'er the hills afar!

There is a joy-it is not in the beam

The moon has pour'd o'er mountain, tower, and stream!

There is a joy-and 'tis not in thy song,

Bard of the night! though echo mocks thee long;

(Who hears and loves thee not?) nor in the hush

The stilliness of night; nor in the blush

The loveliness of morn! For storm or calm,

Sorrow or mirth, there is a joy, a balm:

And where, oh! where are they? I turn to thee,
Thou book of life, hope, love and liberty!

Gazing on thee, night's radiance waxeth dim,
Ev'n sadness mingles with the warbled hymn;
And yet whose strain was happier than the throng
Of the wild wood?-but, hark! the seraph-song
Swells on my ear, in blended harp and voice,
As on that night it bade the swains rejoice.
Lo! from its page another world appears,
Undimm'd by griefs and unbedew'd with tears;
A blissful world of harmony and peace;
For there all troubling and all care shall cease;
There the rapt soul enjoy its day of rest-
One long, long day with endless glory blest!

O! for that clime my pinions let me plume-
Fade fast, thou world of sorrowing and gloom !
Ye lovely, lonely watchers of the night!
Soon far beyond ye may I wing my flight,
And find, exchang'd for all earth's bitter woes,
A home of joy, of refuge and repose.

This is the joy, young Isadore ! believe,
More than the minstrel in his verse can weave ;-
More than the poet, as his raptur'd eye
Dwells on the earth, the ocean, or the sky,

Can ever feel-joy for the deepest gloom,

Strewing with flowers our pathway to the tomb !

VISION OF INFANTS IN HEAVEN.

MONTGOMERY.

I SAW them in white raiment crown'd with
flowers,

On the fair banks of that resplendent river,
Whose streams make glad the city of our
God-

Waters of life as clear as crystal, welling
Forth from the throne itself, and visiting
Fields of a Paradise that ne'er was lost,
Where yet the tree of life immortal grows,
And bears its monthly fruits, twelve kinds
of fruit

Each in its season, food of Saints and Angels,
Whose leaves are for the healing of the
nations.

Beneath the shadow of its blessed boughs I marked those rescued Infants, in their schools

By spirits of just men made perfect, taught
The glorious lessons of Almighty Love,
Which brought them thither by the readiest
path,

Came in mine ear, whose secret cells were opened

To entertain celestial harmonies ;

The small sweet accents of those little chil-
dren

Pouring out all the gladness of their souls
In love, joy, gratitude, and praise to Him;-
Him who had lov'd and wash'd them in his
blood,

These were to me the most transporting

strains

Amidst the hallelujahs of all Heaven.

Tho' lost awhile in that amazing chorus
Around the throne-at happy intervals
The shrill hosannas of the infant quire
Singing in that Eternal Temple, brought
Tears to mine eye, which seraphs had been
glad

To

That melted all my soul, when I beheld
weep, could they have felt the sympathy
How condescending Deity thus deigned
Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
here

To perfect his high praise. The harp of
Heaven

Had lack'd its least, but not its meanest string From the world's wilderness of dire tempta- Had children not been taught to play upon it,

tions,

Securing thus their everlasting weal.

Yea in the rapture of that hour, tho' songs Of Cherubim to golden lyres and trumpets, And the redeemed upon the sea of glass With voices like the sound of many waters,

And sing from feelings all their own, what

men

Nor angels can conceive of creatures, born
Under the curse, yet from the curse redeem'd,
And placed at once beyond the power to fall.

Safety which men nor angels ever knew,
Till ranks of these, and all of those had fallen.

BLISS OF HEAVEN INEFFABLE.

T. MOORE.

Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world as far
As the Universe spreads its flaming wall:
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of Heav'n is worth them all.

ETERNITY.

TO ETERNITY.

BARBAULD.

THE year has seen

Its round of seasons, has fulfilled its course,

Absolved its destined period, and is borne,

Silent and swift, to that devouring gulf,

Their womb and grave, where seasons, months, and years, Revolving periods of uncounted time,

All merge, and are forgotten.-Thou alone,

In thy deep bosom burying all the past,

Still art; and still from thine exhaustless store

New periods spring, Eternity.-Thy name

Or glad, or fearful, we pronounce, as thoughts

Wandering in darkness shape thee, Thou strange being,
Which art and must be, yet which contradict'st

All sense, all reasoning,-thou who never wast
Less than thyself, and who still art thyself

Entire, though the deep draught which Time has taken
Equals thy present store.-No line can reach

To thy unfathomed depths. The reasoning sage
Who can dissect a sunbeam, count the stars,

And measure worlds, is here a child,

And, humbled, drops his calculating pen.

On, and still onward flows the ceaseless tide,
And wrecks of empires and of worlds are borne
Like atoms on its bosom.-Still thou art
And HE who does inhabit thee.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.

H. MORE.

SINCE trifles make the sum of human things, And half our misery from our foibles springs : Since life's best joys consist in peace and

ease,

And few can save, or serve, but all can please :

Oh! let th' ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence: Large bounties to bestow, we wish in vain, But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.

Soothes not another's rugged path alone,
But scatters roses to adorn his own.
Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmixed
with hate,

Make up in number what they want in weight:

These, and a thousand griefs minute as these, Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace.

POWER AND GENTLENESS;

OR THE

To bless mankind with tides of flowing CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET.

wealth,

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Mark, how its foamy spray,

On these Heaven bade the sweets of life Ting'd by the sun-beams with reflected dyes,

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