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'Tis well—'tis more—'tis nobly done ;
Thy recompense, by far
By emperor or czar.
Thy gaze turn thou on him,
Whose hope beyond, is dim.
The serpent hath him bound; With gripe of death, its folds are cast
His inmost soul around.
He bathed his boyhood in the cup,
In poison quenched his prime; Its fires have drunk existence up,
And now he “bides his time.”
There are fond ones to share his wo,
He will not sink alone;
Jehovah's moveless throne.
And him-eternity's proud heir
Shouldst thou, for aye, pass by,
A castaway, to die?
He will not, cannot tread ;
The living from the dead.
We saw thee in thy gladness,
When peace sat on thy brow; The solacer of sadness,
The faithful friend wast thou. To thee, in bounteous measure,
The things below, to love, Were given, and yet thy treasure
Was fondly laid above.
We saw thee test the power
Of confidence divine;
With gentleness, was thine.
To take the lowly seat, And sit with Mary, ever
At thy Redeemer's feet.
We stood where thou wert lying
In suffering, and so deep That holy calm, that dying
Was seemingly to sleep, To sleep? Oh no! the portal
Thus gently rent awayThou unto life immortal
Wokest then in perfect day,
We knew that while were glooming
O'er thee, the shades of night,
Thou sawost in vision blooming;
The fields of living light. We deemed so sweetly given
Was thine to cheer the heart, • Farewell! we meet in heaven'
'Twas little pain to part. The grave hath closed around thee,
And hidden what was fair; But yesterday, upon thee
We wept, and left thee there. Left! No! the grave holds never
What we have loyed in thee, The spirit that forever
-With thee for aye begun-
Yet lingers, blessed one-
The watch at gates of gold, That these in bliss entrancing,
Thy loved, thou may'st behold?
Pity the Blind!-what is his lot
Whose all of life's a wasting dreamTo whom the pleasant earth's a blot,
To whom the skies a mockery seem.
Whose eye in gladness never met
In infancy, a mother's eye;
Nor mother's tear, when ills were nigh. Pity the Blind!—who, not without
Some vision of a world of bliss, Is in his secret grief shut out
From all the kindly joys of this. Who ne'er above, may trace the hand
That curtained out that starry hall, Nor mark below, on sea and land,
The skill that formed and fosters all.
Joy for the Blind! for unto him
Has knowledge her pure ray revealed; And intellect, that long lay dim,
To life and light is now unsealed. And cheerfully his gladdened eye
Looks o’er the broad expanse afar; The uncertain hope that vexed his sky
Has trembled out a lovely star. Joy for the Blind!—the favoured Blind!
Who revels in discovered store, And gazes with the eyes of mind
On beauty dimly known before. 0 Thou, that once did'st chase the night
From the blind men that cried to thee, Here art thou loftier in thy might,
For mind and soul are bid to see.
THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH.
I've worshipped where the mighty kneel
Before the Mightiest in prayer; And with the noble organ's peal
My mingling hymn has risen there.
I've met where “two or three” have met
Before the throne in tears to lie; Nor would my soul that hour forget,
When in communion God passed by.
Yet higher privilege for me,
I covet not to be revealed, Than a glad worshipper to be
Where children have in beauty kneeled.
To mingle mine with their pure prayers
When they like infant cherubs bend: To join my voice and heart with theirs
In anthems to our heavenly friend.
That melody! it knows not art,
That simple prayer! I feel 'tis true; In Jesus, children have a part,
'Tis theirs to love and worship too.
And there, before the eternal throne,
Censers to such dear ones are given; Their lisping harps of silver tone
Ring sweetest ’mid the choirs of heaven.