OF THINE OWN HAVE WE GIVEN THEE!" How sweet shall be the incense of my prayer! I Since He who bids me, gives the power to pray, may draw near, and bring those spices rare, That spring not forth from my unfertile clay. Source of all perfect gifts!—ah! who shall lay Aught at thy feet, save that by thee bestowed? Thine is the softening dew, the quickening ray; And thine the right to reap where thou hast strewed. Forerunner to the purchased abode! Oh shed thou then upon me-e'en on me, To where the pure in heart shall dwell with thee. My thoughts, my tongue, my life, to thy immortal praise! "AND SHE ANSWERED, IT IS WELL!" O YE, who, with the silent tear Those eyes, indeed, are rayless now; The joys its soul is called to share, How would those lips rejoice to tell, The Saviour lives-" and all is well!"' "MY DAYS ARE LIKE A SHADOW THAT DECLINETH." CHILD of the dust! if e'er thine eye Then hast thou seen a silent force Pervade its current strong; No sound, no ripple, marks its course, 'Tis noiseless thus, yet swift as thought And thus, though man regards them not, His precious moments fly. A few brief days, in splendour bright, Yon glorious orb has shone; Add next a few returns of night, And, lo! a year is gone. Lord! grant me grace these seasons fleet To Thee alone to spend, That I with joy Thy face may meet, When life's short course shall end: And teach me on that Saviour's love Who, though He fills a throne above, Oh then, while days and years shall glide In silent speed away, My soul shall view the ebbing tide But know no sad dismay; At hand, though unperceived, And I salvation nearer see Than when I first believed. THERE IS NO DISCHARGE IN THAT WAR." LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,—but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death. Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad tidings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears,-but all are Thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee !-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey! |