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Weep ye! Oh weep your leader gone;

Yet mark the way that prophet trod;
Through peril's path he wandered on,

Till, lost to men, he's found with God.

What glories canopied his bed!

What music lingered on his ear!
He saw whose hand sustained his head,

He knew the voice that calmed his fear.

Would'st die like him?-Live thou the life

Of holy hope, of love divine;
And faint not in the weary strife,

Thou wilt not, if his faith be thine.

Deny me not!-I ask with awe;

Give me, O Lord, thou hast the power; The bright apocalypse he saw,

In nature's weakest, mightiest hour.

MISSIONARIES.

ONWARD, ye men of prayer, Scatter, in rich exuberance, the seed Whose fruit is living bread, and all your need

Will God supply--his harvest ye shall share.

To him child of the bow, The wanderer by his native Oregon, Tell of that Jesus, who, in dying, won The peace-branch of the skies--salvation for his

foe.

Unfurl the banneret
On other shores. Messiah's cross bid shine
O’er every lovely bill of Palestine;
* Fair stars of glory that shall never set.

Seek ye the far-off isle;
The sullied jewel of the deep,
O’er whose remembered beauty angels weep,

Restore its lustre and to God give spoil.

Go, break the chain of caste;
Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more
The Indian river roll its waves of gore.

Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast.

To heal the bruised, speed;
Go, pour on Africa the balm
Of Gilead, and her agony to calm

Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed.

And thou, oh Church, betake Thyself to watching, labour-help these men. God shall thee visit of a surety, when Thou’rt faithful—Church that Jesus bought,

awake! awake!

THE INFANT SCHOOL.

THE Infant School! 'twas Mercy's thought

To calm religion's direst fear; And Hope her brightest visions brought,

And Woman gave her truest tear: The Infant School! away, away

Ambition's dreams of prouder name; Humanity shall tribute pay

To toil that wins, yet asks not fame.

The Infant School! O, true, it lends

No voice of high and daring deed; Yet whispers it of home and friends,

And welcome to the child of need; Of it the trump that calls to death

And glory, when sad eyes are dim, Sings not, yet lives it in the breath

of pure thanksgiving's holy hymn.

The Infant School! who here shall say

What buried worth the seer hath seen? What arm, high destinies to sway,

What herald of the Nazarene? O, for these snatch'd from misery's doom

And nurtured for their native sky, Believ'st thou not, for thee shall bloom

Some brighter heritage on high?

The Infant School! —then crime no more

Shall with cursed fruit my country chide;

Nor ignorance, nor sorrow pour
O'er moral wastes the angry

tide. Thou! once an Infant in distress,

Now Occupant of David's throne, Look, and approve and ever bless The godlike labour,

thine own.

W. B. P. OF ENGLAND.

What though across Atlantic's wave

Thou wand'redst to the setting sun; And left, to seek a stranger-grave,

The snow-white cliffs of Albion :

Where our Ohio's silver tide

Tracks the broad valley, thou as sweet Shalt rest, as by the velvet side

Of Rother's streams where Mersey's meet.

The flower that springs above thy tomb,

And dies to type thee, is as fair
As loveliest plants that rise and bloom

In yonder isle, and perish there.

What though stood not where thou didst die,

Companions of thy boyhood's band; The hallowed touch that closed thine eye,

Was kind-it was a mother's hand.

What though thou fedd'st from paths below,

Where thorns abound, in trouble trod; Thou gatherest leaves of healing now,

And drinkest at the throne of God.

Farewell! we give no pitying tear,

Though grateful tears have flowed for thee; Oh no, thou need'st it not, who, here

Dying, in heaven begins to be.

THE CAMP MEETING.

ABOVE is flung the arch of heaven,

Beneath is spread the sod,
And from these thousand hearts is given

The stirring hymn to God.

Around his wreathed pillar stayed,

Clouds piled on clouds, lend light; A girding wall by day displayed,

A beacon-fire by night.

This woodland for his temple claimed,

These trees of lively green,
Its columns, which his fingers framed,

And cast his light between,

Are holy : hark, the sound of song

Swells up from tent and tree;

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