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Behold his loving head! his bleeding hands! His oft-repeated stripes! his wounded side! Hark! how he groans! Remember how he cried.

The very heavens put weeds of mourning on; The solid rocks in sunder rent;

And yet this stone will not relent!

Hard-hearted man!

Only man denied

to mourn for him

For whom alone He died!

HYMN BY A BENGOLI CONVERT.

KRISTNA PAL.

O thou, my soul, forget no more
The Friend who all thy misery bore.

Let every idol be forgot,

But O, my soul, forget Him not.

Renounce thy works and ways with grief,

And fly to this divine relief;

Nor Him forget, who left his throne,
And for thy life gave up his own.

Infinite truth and mercy shine
In Him, and he himself is thine :

And canst thou then, with sin beset,

Such charms, such matchless charms forget?

O! no! till life itself depart,

His name shall cheer and warm my heart;
And lisping this, from earth I'll rise,

And join the chorus of the skies.

CONSECRATION.

Jesus, Saviour, Lord of Life,
We are thine, forever thine;
Toiling on with weary strife,

Help us with thy power divine!
When in battle fighting, bleeding,
Or in peace our flocks we're feeding,
By our side still abide ;
Precious Saviour, ne'er forsake us,

Till to thy abode thou take us;

Then we'll cast our crowns before thee,

And in loftier strains adore thee!

Now we live for thee alone,

"Tis for thee these arms we bear ; Other leader we have none; Sovereign Saviour, thine we are!

THE TRUE REST.

What dost thou, O wandering dove,

From thy home in the rock's riven breast? Tis fair, but the falcon is wheeling above; Fly fly to the sheltering nest.

To thy nest, wandering dove, to thy nest!

Frail bark, on that bright summer sea,
That the breezes now curl but in sport,
Spread swiftly thy sail, nor, though pleasant it be,
E'er linger till safe in the port.

To the port, little bark, to the port!

Tired roe, that the hunter dost flee,

While his arrow e'en now's on the wing,

In that dark green recess there's a fountain for

thee;

Go, rest by that cool secret spring!

To the spring, panting roe, to the spring!

My spirit, still hovering, half blest,

'Mid shadows so fleeting and dim,

Ah! know'st thou thy Rock, and thy haven of rest, And thy pure spring of Joy? Then to Him! Then to Him, fluttering spirit, to Him!

THE CHILD'S GRAVE.

It is a place where tender thought
Its voiceless vigil keepeth;
It is a place where kneeling love
'Mid all its hope still weepeth;
The vanished light of all a life
That tiny spot encloseth,

Where, followed by a thousand dreams,
The little one reposeth.

It is a place where thankfulness
Its tearful tribute giveth,
That one so pure hath left a world

Where so much sorrow liveth;

Where trial to the heavy heart
Its constant cross presenteth,
And every hour some trace retains
For which the soul repenteth.

It is a place for hope to rise,
When other brightness waneth;
And, from the darkness of the grave,
To learn the gift it gaineth

From Him who wept, as on the earth
Undying love still weepeth;

From Him who spake those blessed words

"She is not dead, but sleepeth."

A CHILD'S REQUEST.

A FACT.

"Mamma," a little maiden said,
Almost with her expiring sigh,
"Put no sweet roses roses round my head,
When in my coffin dress I lie."
"Why not, my dear ?" the mother cried,
What flower so well a corpse adorns?"
"Mamma," the innocent replied,

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EPITAPH ON SUSANNA, WIFE OF DR.
HALL, AND THE ELDEST AND FA,
VORITE DAUGHTER OF SHAKSPEARE,

Witty above her sexe, but that's not all,
Wise to salvation was good Mistris Hall.
Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this
Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse,
Then, passenger, hast ne'er a teare
To weep for her that wept with all?
That wept, yet set herself to cheere
Them up with comfort's cordiall.
Her love shall live, her mercy spread,
When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed.

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