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For him no dream of innocence rose,

No rapture can memory impart;
The genial tide of compassion is froze,

Revenge has withered his heart.
The bliss of a home he ne'er can feel,

Its sweets his curses would blight;
He grasps the brand and the thirsty steel,

Desolation and death his delight.
In the cavern of crime his haunt is known,

There the furies of blasphemy dwell:
At midnight the torch of destruction is blown,

And he writhes with the laugh of hell.


Go thou and mark the holy preacher's tones,
And fix thy gaze intently, as he lifts
The separating veil, and to thy sight
Unfolds the secrets of Eternity:-
The bliss that knows no pausing-pains that roll
In whelming billows, ever, ever on.
Thou hear'st, thou seest, appalled; yet knowest not
To answer me, what is Eternity.
Go, bend thee o'er the impenitent sick one;
Mark well—'tis mortal sickness—the deep pang's
Expressed by nature's eloquence. The groans


The tossings, writhings, the unutterable
Commotions of a body racked; a soul
Already steeped in hell ; and as thou hear'st
The super-human cry break fearful forth,
“Oh what is this Eternity?" despair,
Despair, Oh man, to answer—thou know'st not.
Go to the grave-yard—seek out yonder tomb,
Descend, fear not—thou seest that mouldering lid;
Now handle the dark corse—the clammy bones
Tell of corruption, tell of the foul worm
That long hath here held banqueting.
Hark! from this coffin, broken into dust,
These bones, these damps, this melancholy gloom,
A voice disturbs the chambers of the tomb:
Canst thou reply? Oh no—thou know'st not yet,
Nor learnest here, what is Eternity.
Go to! and let God teach thee-let the grasp
Of sickness, bring thee down unto the gates
Of death, and as thou shuddering seest in light
Unknown before, the past, the present, and
The solemn future—though thy hopes on Him,
The Everlasting Rock, be built: though thou
Art safe through riches of His blood, and thou
Canst say, exulting, “Death! where is thy sting?"
Yet, Man, a veil is lifted up to thee;
Revealing things, undreamed, unfelt, nor told
In the wide range of providence to men.
And now thou canst reply, “Eternity-
Oh more than tongue can tell, or thought devise;
More than imagining can fathom-God!
Eternal God! 'tis thy duration all."


O BRING the peaceful banner nigh

Whose blazon tells of holy love; And spread the standard to the sky

Whose wavy folds reveal the dove.

'Tis done, and on the soft winds now

I see its streaming curls recline, And deem it as a second bow

of promise, and the blessing mine.

Flag of the pure and azure heaven!

How lovely is thy bearing hereFree as the breezes round thee driven,

Is thy sweet errand on the ear.

Thou markest not the hurrying keel,

Whose foamy path leads on to gold ; Thy nobler freighted barques conceal

Gems, Tyre and Tarshish never told.

Thou leadest not the armed host:

Thou art not in the battle's hum; No trump sings of thee, round thee roll

No thunders of the stirring drum.

But unto thee are gathered men,

Whose only panoply is prayer;
And where thou wavest, lofty hymns

Discourse along the listening air.

Thou giv'st to patriot gaze no star

Nor stripes, a glorious augury; Yet token of victorious war

Thy beaming symbols seem to be.

or they type One, whose tempered shield

Shook off the hurtling darts of sin; When he trod once no doubtful field,

Imperishable crowns to win.

They tell unto the ocean tost,

That He who spans its floods can save; And that for him, the well nigh lost,

The Ark yet lingers on the wave.

They herald joy to the opprest,

And ransom to the sons of thrall: And shadow forth to labour rest

In music of Salvation's call.

With voice of psalms then to the skies

Unfurl the flag, a type of love;
The answering anthem's shout shall rise

When they reveal the Holy Dove.



“ The impression has very generally obtained that the reformation of drunkards is a hopeless undertaking Facts teach us to renew our efforts to pluck them from the fire, though half con sumed. They may yet be recovered and become useful members of society.”

Thou'st snatched the youth from ruin's grave,

And dashed to earth his chain; And bade him sit, no more a slave,

A man, with men again.

Thou'st rescued from the sorcerer, when

Hope failed to chase the spell;
Thou'st broken caste, that sundered men

Wide as the doors of hell.

To crush the cup, concealed in flowers,

Its garlands to untwine,
Is godlike toil—the fruit is ours,

The triumph, Temperance, thine.

Nor mean that victory--with its song

Is stirred the warriors' graves:
And cries ring thence, in trumpet-tongue,

“Our sons no more are slaves!”

Magician of unequalled power!

Who but thyself could dare To seek the lion in his hour,

And beard him in his lair?

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