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Weep ye! Oh weep your leader gone;
Yet mark the way that prophet trod;
Till, lost to men, he's found with God.
What glories canopied his bed!
What music lingered on his ear!
He knew the voice that calmed his fear.
Would'st die like him?-Live thou the life
Of holy hope, of love divine;
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.
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
Unfurl the banneret
Seek ye the far-off isle;
Restore its lustre and to God give spoil.
Go, break the chain of caste;
Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast.
To heal the bruised, speed;
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,
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
tide. Thou! once an Infant in distress,
Now Occupant of David's throne, Look, and approve and ever bless The godlike labour,
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
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,
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,
And cast his light between,
Are holy : hark, the sound of song
Swells up from tent and tree;