Sinners! whose love can ne'er forget Go-spread your trophies at His feet, And crown Him Lord of all. MRS. MARY PETERS. Esq., who long resided in that place. THE subject of this notice was a native of Cirencester, and daughter of Richard Bewley, She married the Rev. Mc William Peters, rector of Quennington, Gloucestershire. She died at Clifton, Gloucestershire, on the 29th July, 1836 Mrs. Peters composed an elegant work, in seven duodecimo volumes, entitled The World's In 1846, she published History from the Creation to the accession of Queen Victoria." THE NAME OF JESUS. JESUS, how much Thy name unfolds To every open'd ear! The pardon'd sinner's memory None other half so dear. holds "Jesus,"-it speaks a life of love, It speaks of righteousness complete, And, to our ears, no tale so sweet As His atoning blood. Jesus, the one who knew no sin, Worthy art Thou our love to win, And worthy all our trust. This little volume Thy name encircles every grace The mention of Thy name shall bow The chief of sinners, we. ALL IS WELL. THROUGH the love of God our Saviour, All will be well; Free and changeless is His favour, All, all is well. Precious is the blood that heal'd us; Perfect is the grace that seal'd us; Strong the hand stretch'd forth to shield us; All must be well. Though we pass through tribulation, All will be well; Ours is such a full salvation, All, all is well. Happy still, to God confiding, Fruitful, if in Christ abiding, Holy through the Spirit's guiding,— We expect a bright to-morrow, All will be well; Faith can sing, through days of sorrow, All, all is well. On our Father's love relying, Jesus every need supplying, Or in living or in dying, All must be well. ALEXANDER POPE. ALEXANDER POPE was born in London, on the 21st May, 1682 His parents were Roman profession. His numerous poetical writings, which rapidly attracted public notice, acquired Catholics. Of a feeble constitution, and somewhat deformed in person, he chose the literary him the means of independence. His poetical translation of Homer has not been surpassed in felicity of diction. As an English satirist, he stands alone. His whole works have been edited more frequently than those of any other British writer, with the exception of Shakspeare. Pope died at his villa, Twickenham, on the 30th May, 1744. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame, Hark! they whisper; angels say, The world recedes-it disappears; Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER was born in Bedford Square, London, on the 30th October, 1825. Her father, Brian W. Procter, Esq., is well known by his literary nom de guerre of Barry Cornwall. In 1853, Miss Procter became a contributor to Mr. Dickens' Household Words. In 1858, she published the first volume of her "Legends and Lyrics," which at once secured her a wide reputation as a poet. A second volume was added in 1860. In 1861, she edited "The Victoria Regia, a volume of Original Contributions in Poetry and Prose," issued from the Victoria Press, for the employment of women. Another publication appeared in 1862, under the title "A Chaplet of Verses." She died on the 2nd February, 1864. Miss Procter had embraced the Romish faith. Her remains are deposited in St. Mary's Catholic Ground, Kensal Green, An elegantly illustrated edition of her "Legends and Lyrics" has been issued by Bell and Daldy, with an introduction by Mr. Charles Dickens. Lond. 1866. 4to. EVENING HYMN. THE shadows of the evening hours The dews of evening lie: Before Thy throne, O Lord of heaven, Look on Thy children from on high, The sorrows of Thy servants, Lord, The brightness of the coming night Slowly the rays of daylight fade; Within the heavens shine, Give us, O Lord, fresh hopes in heaven, Let peace, O Lord-Thy peace, Upon our souls descend; O God From midnight fears and perils, Thou Our trembling hearts defend; Give us a respite from our toil; Calm and subdue our woes; Through the long day we suffer, Lord, STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. STRIVE! yet I do not promise The prize you dream of to-day Will not fade when you think to grasp Wait! yet I do not tell you The hour you long for now, it, Will not come with its radiance vanished, And a shadow upon its brow; Pray! though the gift you ask for But diviner, will come one day; |