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Oh Thou who reigns't above

Where countless squadrons of bright angels stand,
Teach us to wear Thine armour, seek Thy love,
And call us home at last to join thy heavenly band.

ANNIE WHITE.

THOUGHTS FOR BIRTHDAYS.
Another station on time's gliding railway,

Life's train hath passed;
And now, anticipation's eager glances,

Onwards are cast.
The present age is full of noise and action;

And earnest thought
And meditation, through our rapid transit,

Are rarely sought.
Yet are there seasons when the troubled waters

Of passion's tide,
Touched for a moment by the rod of wisdom,

Hush, and divide.
And o'er the opened pathway of the spirit,

Good feelings cross;
Then earthly gain compared with life eternal,

Seems but as dross.
Then holy vows are breathed forth at the altar

Of thankful hearts;
And hopes grow pure and bright, as stars that glisten,

When day departs. :
Let such be our experience, as we welcome

Each new-born year;
Let worldly mists before truth's radiant sunbeam

Fast disappear.
And the wide-spread expanse of God's rich goodness

Arrest our gaze;
And songs, expressive of the soul's emotion,

Resound His praise!

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No magic glass have we which brings the future

Within our ken;
But mighty faith the confidence sustains

Of Christian men.

Joy may light up our coming path; or sorrow

Our cup o'er-run;
O God of love! all-wise are thy decrees-

Thy will be done!
London.

H. M. W.

“GOOD NIGHT, MAMMA!” [A little girl, two years of age, died after a very short illness. When her eyes began to grow dim with death, she evidently fancied that it was night and she was going to sleep; and she departed with her customary “Good Night, Mamma!” many times repeated, trembling on her lips.)

“Good night, mamma, good night!”
Sweet little prattler! with what thrilling power
This simple sentence came in that sad hour
To those who watched around thy dying bed,
Conscious, alas! that every hope had fled,
Oh, as they listened, burning tear-drops fell,
For each one knew thine was a long farewell!

“Good night, mamma, good night!”
Thick shades had gathered o'er thy soft blue eye,
And thou didst think that evening veiled the sky!
So gentle was the touch of our last foe,
The unexpected call so sweet and low,
That thou wert soothed to beautiful repose,
And fancied death was but the daylight's close!

“Good night, mamma, good night!”
Yes, precious child! thou dost in Jesus sleep,
Calm is thy slumber; wherefore should we weep?
Thou canst not hear the sounds of grief and strife,
Nor feel the thousand bitter ills of life;
No more wilt thou be weary or distrest:-
Oh, who would waken thee from that sweet rest!

• Good night, mamma, good night!”
Thy dying words, so touching, and so brief,
May give a mother's aching heart relief;
For they remind her of the coming day,
When the short sleep of death shall pass away;
When parted ones shall meet in realms of light,

And infant lips no longer speak of night!
London.

H. M. W.
“THE PIOUS DEAD.”
BLESS'd are the dead who die

Believing on the Lord,
They from their labors rest,

And reap a rich reward.
No more beset by sin,

Tempted and tried no more,
Within the promis'd land

Their conflict now is o'er.
They fought the fight of faith,

Looking to Christ alone ;
And now as victors crown'd

Appear before his throne.
While pilgrims here below

They had their doubts and fears,
And humbly mourn'd their guilt

With eyes suffus'd by tears.
Their path was often dark,

And Providence obscure ;
But God all faithful, made

His word of promise sure.
And now to glory rais'd

They serve him day and night,
While all their service proves

Ineffable delight.
No foe invades their peace,

No pain disturbs their rest,
Safe in their Father's house

Number'd amongst the bless'd.

Faith now is lost in sight,

And in fruition, hope,
While all their wondrous powers

Find free and ample scope.
O pleasing thought, that friends

Whose loss we mourn and grieve,
Would not return to earth,

Such blessedness to leave.
But looking down on us

They beckon from the sky,
And with inviting voice,

“Come, come up hither,” cry.
Incline our hearts, O Lord,

To listen to their voice,
That when our course is run,
We, with them, may rejoice.

A. A. DIXEY.

Islington.

HYMN.
LORD, from highest heaven bending-

Heaven's bright dome of crystal, where
Seraph's songs the vaults are rending,

Listen to our humble prayer.
Sinful, mortal, dust and ashes,

Scarce we dare to hope or trust.
Sin's vast mountain-pile abashes

Our vex'd spirits to the dust.
But thy Cross—a mercy-token-

Tells us we may dare to pray,
Sin's strong brazen links are broken,

See, bright dawns salvation's day.
Then with deep heart-felt devotion,

On the sinner's Saviour call;
He can calm life's stormy ocean,

Jesus, Saviour, All in all!

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