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Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by

side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Night is the time to watch ;

On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Unto Sorrow ?—the Dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or

fear; Peace! peace is the watchword, the only one

here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow! Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark

stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may

disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ! The second to Faith, which insures it ful.

fill'd ; And the third to the Lamb of the great

sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose

to the skies. Herbert Knowles.-Born 1798, Died 1817.

Night is the time for care ;

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost. Night is the time to muse ;

Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and with expanding views

Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray ;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away ;

So will his followers do ;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,

And hold communion there with God..

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends—such death be mine! James Montgomery.Born 1771, Died 1854.


Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed !

1385.—THE GRAVE. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found, They softly lie and sweetly sleep

Low in the ground.

Though long of winds and waves the sport,
Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam,
Live! thou shalt reach a sheltering port,

A quiet home.
To friendship didst thou trust thy fame ?
And was thy friend a deadly foe,
Who stole into thy breast, to aim

A surer, blow ?

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh

That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed

From all my toil.
For misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild :
I perish; O, my mother earth!

Take home thy child !
On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind

Resembling me.
Hark! a strange sound affrights mine car;
My pulse, my brain runs wild-I rave :
Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear ?

“I am the Grave!

Live! and repine not o'er his loss,
A loss unworthy to be told :
Thou hast mistaken sordid dross

For friendship's gold.
Go, seek that treasure, seldom found,
Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound

With heavenly balm. Did woman's charms thy youth beguile, And did the fair one faithless prove ? Hath she betray'd thee with her smile,

And sold thy love ?
Live! 'twas a false bewildering fire :
Too often love's insidious dart
Thrills the fond soul with wild desire,

But kills the heart.

The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide :
O listen! I will speak no more :

Be silent, pride!
Art thou a wretch, of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care ?
Is thy distracted conscience torn

By fell despair?
Do foul misdeeds of former times
Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ?
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes

Murder thy rest?
Lash'd by the furies of the mind,
From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou

fleo ? Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find

A friend in me.
By all the terrors of the tomb,
Beyond the power of tongue to tell !
By the dread secrets of my womb !

By death and hell!
I charge thee live! repent and pray;
In dust thine infamy deplore ;
There yet is mercy; go thy way,

And sin no more.

Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear,
To gaze on listening beauty's eye!
To ask-and pause in hope and fear

Till she reply!
A nobler flame shall warm thy breast,
A brighter maiden faithful prove;
Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest

In woman's love.
Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be,
Confess thy folly, kiss the rod,
And in thy chastening sorrows see

The hand of God.

A bruised reed he will not break;
Amictions all his children feel ;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake ;

He wounds to heal !

Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore : 'Tis done !-Arise! He bids thee stand,

To fall no more.


Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known
The joy of innocent delights ?
Endearing days for ever flown,

And tranquil nights ?
O live! and deeply cherish still
The sweet remembrance of the past :
Rely on Heaven's unchanging will

For peace at last. Art thou a wanderer ? Hast thou seen O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? A shipwreck'd sufferer, hast thou been

Misfortune's mark ?

Now, traveller in the vale of tears !
To realms of everlasting light,
Through time's dark wilderness of years,

Pursue thy flight.
There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep

Low in the ground;
The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine

A star of day!

The sun is but a spårk of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its sire,

Shall never dic."
James Montgomery.--Born 1771, Died 1854.

1386.-ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. Higher, higher will we climb,

Up to the mount of glory, That our names may live through time

In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge ; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil

Win from school and college ; Delve we there for richer gems Than the stars of diadems.

He loved—but whom he loved the grave

Hath lost in its unconscious womb :
O she was fair! but nought could save

Her beauty from the tomb.
He saw whatever thou hast seen ;

Encounter'd all that troubles thee :
He was-whatever thou hast been ;

He is—what thou shalt be.
The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eyo

That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace

Than this—there lived a man !
James Montgomery.-Born 1771, Died 1854.

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Onward, onward may we press

Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,

In the wildest weather ;
0! they wander wide who roam

For the joys of life from home.
James Montgomery.Born 1771, Died 1854.

1387.—THE COMMON LOT. Once, in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man: and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown : His name has perish'd from the earth,

This truth survives alone :

1388.—PRAYER. Prayer is the soul's sincere desire

Utter'd or unexpress'd; The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,

The falling of a tear ;
The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech

That infant lips can try ;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach

The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,

The Christian's native air ;
His watchword at the gates of death :

He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice

Returning from his ways ;
While angels in their songs rejoice,

And say “Behold he prays !
The saints in prayer appear as one,

In word, and deed, and mind,
When with the Father and his Son

Their fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone :

The Holy Spirit pleads ;
And Jesus, on the eternal throne,

For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God,

The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :

Lord, teach us how to pray !
James Montgomery.--Born 1771, Died 1854,

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That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,

Alternate triumph'd in his breast; His bliss and woema smile, a tear!

Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirits' rise and fall ;
We know that these were felt by him,

For these are felt by all.
He suffer'd—but his pangs are o'er ;

Enjoy'd-but his delights are fled ;
Had friends—his friends are now no more ;

And foes-his foes are dead.


Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;

This is a Mother's Love.


There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth :
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting

Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembranco, trembles to that

pole ;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother,

Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter,

Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be

found ?
Art thou a man ?-a patriot ?-look around;
0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps

roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy

home! James Montgomery. - Born 1771, Died 1854.

To mark its growth from day to day,

Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray

Of intellectual fire ;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks ;

This is a Mother's Love.
And can a Mother's Love grow cold ?

Can she forget her boy ?
His pleading innocence behold,

Nor weep for grief-for joy?
A Mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild ;

Is this a Mother's Love?
Ten thousand voices answer “No!”

Ye clasp your babes and kiss ;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow;

Yet, ah ! remember this,-
The infant, rear'd alone for earth,
May live, may die,-to curse his birth;

-Is this a Mother's Love?
A parent's heart may prove a snare ;

The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,

Down the smooth road to hell ;
Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind ::
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

Even with a Mother's Love.

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A Mother's Love,-how sweet the name!

What is a Mother's love ?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a Mother's Love.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord,
And pour'd upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word ;
This was the lesson to her son
-Time is Eternity begun :

Behold that Mother's Love.
Blest Mother! who, in wisdom's path

By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear, of God :
Ah, youth! like him enjoy your prime;
Begin Eternity in time,

Taught by that Mother's Love.
That Mother's Love !-how sweet the name !

What was that Mother's Love?
- The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,

That kindles from above,
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold :

This was that Mother's Love.
James Montgomery.-Born 1771, Died 1854.

To bring a helpless babe to light,

Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a Mother's Love.

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Its weakness in her arms to bear ;

To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from Love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;

1391.-TO A DAISY.

There is a flower, a little flower

With silver crest and golden eye,

That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field, In gay but quick succession shine ; Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Enwreathes the circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charm,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arm.

To give them songs for signing,

Their darkness turn to light, Whose souls, condemn'd and dying,

Were precious in His sight. By such shall He be feared

While sun and moon endureBeloved, obey'd, revered ;

For He shall judge the poor, Through changing generations,

With justice, mercy, truth, Whilo stars maintain their stations

Or moons renew their youth.
He shall come down like showers

Upon the fruitful earth,
And love, joy, hope, like flowers,

Spring in His path to birth;
Before Him, on the mountains,

Shall Peace, the herald, go, And Righteousness, in fountains,

From hill to valley flow. Arabia's desert-ranger

To Him shall bow the knee, The Ethiopian stranger

His glory come to see ; With offerings of devotion

Ships from the isles shall meet, To pour the wealth of ocean

In tribute at His feet.

The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale; O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the skylark's nest.
'Tis Flora's page—in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair ;
It opens with porennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

Kings shall fall down before Him,

And gold and incense bring; All nations shall adore Him,

His praise all people sing; For He shall have dominion

O’er river, sea, and shore, Far as the eagle's pinion

Or dove's light wing can soar. For Him shall prayer unceasing,

And daily vows, ascend-
His kingdom still increasing,

A kingdom without end;
The mountain-dews shall nourish

A seed in weakness sown,
Whose fruit shall spread and flourish,

And shake like Lebanon.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ;
The rose has but a summer reign;
The Daisy never dies !
James Montgomery.Born 1771, Died 1854.


Hail to the Lord's anointed'

Great David's greater Son !
Hail, in the time appointed,

His reign on earth begun! He comes to break oppression,

To set the captive free,
To take away transgression,

And rule in equity.
He comes with succour speedy

To those who suffer wrong;,
To help the poor and needy,

And bid the weak be strong;

O’er every foe victorious,

He on His throne shall rest,
From age to age more glorious,

All-blessing and all-blest;
The tide of time shall never

His covenant remove;
His name shall stand for ever ;

That name to us is-Love.
James Jontgomery.Born 1771, Died 1854.


A poor wayfaring man of grief

Hath often cross'd me on my way,

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