There's not a star the heaven can shew,

There's not a cottage hearth below,
But feeds with solace kind the willing soul-

Men love us, or they need our love;

Freely they own, or heedless prove The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

Then rouse thee from desponding sleep,

Nor by the wayside lingering weep, Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild,

Whose love can turn earth's worst and least

Into a conqueror's royal feast : Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguild. EIGHTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

It is the man of God, who was disobedient to the word of the Lord. 1 Kings xiii. 26.

PROPHET of God, arise and take
With thee the words of wrath divine,

The scourge of Heaven, to shake
O'er yon apostate shrine.

Where angels down the lucid stair
Came hovering to our sainted sires,

Now, in the twilight, glare
The heathen's wizard fires.

Go, with thy voice the altar rend,
Scatter the ashes, be the arm,

That idols would befriend,
Shrunk at thy withering charm.

Then turn thee, for thy time is short,
But trace not o'er the former

way,
Lest idol pleasures court
Thy heedless soul astray.

Thou know’st how hard to hurry by,
Where on the lonely woodland road

Beneath the moonlight sky
The festal warblings flow'd;

Where maidens to the Queen of Heaveny
Wove the gay dance round oak or palm,

Or breath'd their vows at even
In hymns as soft as balm.

Or thee perchance a darker spell
Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood,

By mountain grot or fell,
Pollute with infant's blood;

The giant altar on the rock,
The cavern whence the timbrel's call

Affrights the wandering flock :-
Thou long'st to search them all.

Trust not the dangerous path again-
O forward step and lingering will !

O lov'd and warn'd in vain !
And wilt thou perish still ?

Thy message given, thine home in sight,
To the forbidden feast return ?

Yield to the false delight
Thy better soul could spurn?

Alas, my brother ! round thy tomb
In sorrow kneeling, and in fear,

We read the Pastor's doom
Who speaks and will not hear.

The grey-hair'd saint may fail at last,
The surest guide a wanderer prove;

Death only binds us fast
To the bright shore of love.

NINTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

و

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire, a still small voice. I Kings xix. 12.

IN troublous days of anguish and rebuke,
While sadly round them Israel's children look,

And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord : While underneath each awful arch of green, every mountain top,

God's chosen scene
Of pure heart-worship, Baal is ador'd:

On

"Tis well, true hearts should for a time retire
To holy ground, in quiet to aspire

Towards promis’d regions of serener grace ;
On Horeb, with Elijah, let us lie,
Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky,

God's chariot-wheels have left distinctest trace: