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same Incarnate Lord, and contemplating life, death, and nature, from so many common points of view?

It is possible that some persons may consider many of the poems in the present volume too difficult for children of the ages indicated. The Compiler is assured, however, by actual experiment, that there is little, if anything, in the entire collection, which is not capable of giving pleasure to such children, if they are of ordinary intelligence. A namby-pamby, childish style is most unpleasing to children, especially to boys; it is surprising how soon they can understand and follow a high order of poetry (always supposing it is not subtle or metaphysical), especially when it assumes a narrative form, and has the aid of rhyme.

The Compiler is, as a general rule, most averse to the practice of garbling or altering poems. A rash collector may work as blindly with a fine poem as a rash restorer with a fine picture; but the exigencies of children's tastes and capacities, and the necessary limits of the work, have required frequent abbreviation. Thus, in selecting from the works of Wordsworth, and the great author of " The Christian Year," she has sometimes taken a single thought or picture detached from the context, having to make her choice between this course or the omission of some of the holiest and loveliest lines in English sacred song. Once or twice only she has altered a word, or transposed a line for the sake of connexion, or changed into modern language the obsolete expressions of some very old writer.

The Compiler cannot close her task without the prayer that this volume may in some measure tend to make Sunday a pleasant day to children. May it help to teach them to praise God the Father, Son, and Spirit; to contemplate life and death and their own hearts as Christians should: to understand the spirit of the Bible; and through this fair creation to look up to Him who is its Creator.


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Prayer is the soul's sincere desire,

Utter'd, or unexpress'd; The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,

The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of the eye,

When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech

That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 'The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice

Returning from his ways,
While angels in their songs rejoice,

And cry, Behold he prays!

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath.

The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death;

He enters Heaven with prayer.

The saints, in prayer, appear as one
In word, and deed, and mind,

While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made by man alone,

The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus, on th' eternal throne,

For sinners intercedes.

O Thou, by whom we come to God!

The Life, the Truth, the Way! The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:

Lord! teach us how to pray.

J. Montgomery



Come, 0! come, with sacred lays,
Let us sound th' Almighty's praise;
Hither, bring in true consent,
Heart, and voice, and instrument.
Let the orpharion sweet
With the harp and viol meet:


To your voices tune the lute:
Let not tongue nor string be mute:
Nor a creature dumb be found,
That hath either voice or sound.

Let such things as do not live,
In still music praises give;
Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep
On the earth, or in the deep;
Loud aloft your voices strain,
Beasts and monsters of the main;
Birds, your warbling treble sing;
Clouds, your peals of thunder ring;
Sun and Moon exalted higher,
And you Stars, augment the quire.

Come, ye sons of human race,
In this chorus take your place,
And amid this mortal throng,
Be ye masters of the song.
Angels and celestial powers,
Be the noblest tenor yours.
Let, in praise of God, the sound
Run a never-ending round,
That our holy hymn may be
Everlasting, as is He.

From the earth's vast hollow womb
Music's deepest bass shall come,
Sea and floods from shore to shore
Shall the counter-tenor roar.
To this concert, when we sing,
Whistling winds, your descant bring:

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