Weep ye! Oh weep your leader gone; What glories canopied his bed! What music lingered on his ear! He saw whose hand sustained his head, Would'st die like him?-Live thou the life 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, The peace-branch of the skies--salvation for his foe. Unfurl the banneret On other shores. Messiah's cross bid shine Seek ye the far-off isle; The sullied jewel of the deep, O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep, Go, break the chain of caste; Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more 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. Thou'rt faithful-Church that Jesus bought, THE INFANT SCHOOL. THE Infant School! 'twas Mercy's thought Ambition's dreams of prouder name; 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; And glory, when sad eyes are dim, The Infant School! who here shall say O, for these snatch'd from misery's doom The Infant School!-then crime no more Shall with cursed fruit my country chide; Nor ignorance, nor sorrow pour W. B. P. OF ENGLAND. WHAT though across Atlantic's wave 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, What though stood not where thou didst die, What though thou fledd'st from paths below, 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, Around his wreathed pillar stayed, This woodland for his temple claimed, Are holy hark, the sound of song |