Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame, With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, EVENING WORSHIP. Rev. George Gardon. Go thou when evening falleth, When lingering sun doth fade,— Thy soul to Him unbosom, Who heaven and earth hath made. Go thou when fair pale moonlight To Him who died to save thee, To Jesus, bow thy knee. Then, suppliant at God's altar, Strike thy harp's sweetest chord,— Give glory to the Father, Confess that Christ is Lord. ᎢᎻᎬ ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ . C. Swain. THE Heart-the gifted heart Who may reveal its depths to human sight! What eloquence impart The softness of its love-the grandeur of its might! It is the seat of bliss, The blessed home of all affections sweet; It smiles where friendship is, It glows where social feelings meet. "Tis virtue's hallow'd fane 'Tis freedom's first, and best, and noblest shield! A strength that will remain When grosser powers and feebler spirits yield! It is religion's shrine, From whence our holiest aspirations wing; Where joys, which are divine, And hopes, which are of heaven, alone may spring! The fount of tenderness Where every purer passion has its birth, To cheer-to charm-to bless And sanctify our pilgrimage on earth. O, heart! 'till life be o'er, Shed round the light and warmth of thy dear flame, And I will ask no more Of earthly happiness-of earthly fame! AN INFANT'S DEATH-BED. Bethune. WITH piety beyond her years, In patient pain she lay, And, as she mark'd her mother's tears, For she, poor sufferer, had been taught, The language of her own sweet thought, And she had heard of Sin and Death, Had heard of Hell and Heaven, And knew that mortal guilt through faith Alone can be forgiven; And therefore did her dying eye And her dying lips imploringly Pray for me, mother-mother, pray!" Why should that parent grieve in vain She grieves-yet placid is the tear She weeps above her faded rose, But the font that flows o'er its repose And she would rather linger there, Of such as she whose eyes are closed And she shall need no fostering hand, To tend her in that holy land, For all are happy there. Such is the joyful hope which fills That parent's eye with light, Even through the tear which love distils THE SCOTTISH MARTYR'S GRAVE. Brown. I STOOD by the Martyr's lonely grave, Where the flowers of the moorland bloom P |