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Yet, courage !—days and years will glide,
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
As withereth the Primrose by the River.
S withereth the primrose by the river,
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Aspirations of the Soul. AH! when did wisdom covet length of days,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth or praise ? No :-wisdom views with an indifferent eye, All finite joys, all blessings born to die. The soul on earth is an immortal guest, Compelled to starve at an unreal feast : A spark that upward tends by nature's force; A stream diverted from its parent source ; A drop dissever'd from the boundless sea; A moment parted from eternity! A pilgrim, panting for a rest to come ; An exile, anxious for his native home.
Around Bethesda's Healing Wave. AROUND Bethesda’s healing wave
Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Its virtue to that holy spring,
Had often seen the waters stirred;
The bitter sigh of hope deferred;
No power had he; no friendly aid
To him its timely succour brought; But, while his coming he delayed,
Another won the boon he sought ;Until the Saviour's love was shown, Which healed him by a word alone! Had they who watched and waited there
Been conscious who was passing by, With what unceasing, anxious care,
Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved, with fervency of soul, His
power divine to make them whole! But habit and tradition swayed
Their minds to trust to sense alone; They only hoped the angel's aid ;
While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, With power from
every pain to free. Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel, by his glad descent,
Which with its healing waters went,
Religion's outward forms remain
While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure!
Yet are there who this truth confess,
Who know how little forms avail,
Confirms the impotent's sad tale ;
Which tell the visitant is nigh;
Whose touch alone might health supply ;
As when that healing word was spoke;
Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke. Oh! be that power, that love displayed ! Help those, whom Thou alone canst aid !
Abraham. THE HE better portion didst thou choose, Great
Heart, Thy God's first choice, and pledge of Gentile
grace! Faith's truest type, he with unruffled face Bore the world's smile, and bade her slaves depart; Whether, a trader, with no trader's art,
He buys in Canaan his first resting-place,
Or freely yields rich Siddim's ample space, Or braves the rescue and the battle's smart, Yet scorns the heathen gifts of those he saved. O happy in their soul's high solitude, Who commune thus with God and not with earth! Amid the scoffings of the wealth-enslaved, A ready prey, as though in absent mood They calmly move, nor hear the unmannered mirth.
A Voice is on Mine Ear. A VOICE is on mine ear
-a solemn voice : come, I come, it calls me to my rest; Faint not my yearning heart, rejoice, rejoice,
Soon shalt thou reach the gardens of the blest : On the bright waters there, the living streams,
Soon shalt thou launch in peace thy weary bark, Waked by rude waves no more from gentle
dreams, Sadly to feel that earth to thee is darkNot bright as once ; oh vain, vain memories, cease, I cast your burden down-I strive for peace.
A voice is on mine ear- a welcome tone:
I hear its summons in a stranger land, It calls me hence, to die amid mine own, Where first my forehead, by the wild breeze