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THE WIDOW'S MITE.

Their paths are paths of plenteousness,

They sleep on silk and down, And never think how heavily

The weary head lies down.

They know not of the scanty meal,
With small pale faces round;

No fire upon the cold damp hearth,
When snow is on the ground.

They never by their window sit,
And see the gay pass by;
Yet take their weary work again,
Though with a mournful eye.

The rich, they give-they miss it not-
A blessing can not be,

Like that which rests, thou widow'd one,
Upon thy gift and thee.

Letitia E. Landon.

"

343

1

Who Gazes from Mount Olivet?

And as he sat upon the Mount of Olives, over against the temple, Peter, and James, and John, and Andrew, asked him privately, "Tell us when shall these things be?-ST. MARK Xiii. 3, 4.

WHO gazes from Mount Olivet,

His dovelike eyes with sorrow wet-
His bosom with compassion heaving,
His mighty heart with sorrow grieving?
Who searches with unerring eye
Into thy sad futurity,

Jerusalem! and sees thy doom
Written by imperial Rome;-
Famine, Slaughter, Fire, agreed
On thy precious ones to feed,
Ruin round thy bulwarks wrap,
And the pagan eagle flap
O'er the sacred mercy-seat?

Who is he that sees it all?

Sees, when sacrilegious feet
Tread on Zion-when the call

Is for vengeance most complete?
He, the prophet, pilgrim-shod;
He, the very Son of God!

WHO GAZES FROM MOUNT OLIVET?

Years sweep on !-Jerusalem!
Thee the Roman armies hem.
Countless legions on thee press;
Clouds of arrows thee distress;
Stone and dart and javelin

Entrance to tlry treasures win.

Hippicus, Antonia, fall,

Mariamne-and thy wall

Pierced with gates of burnish'd gold

And the holy house of old,

Yield unto the dreadful strife

Heavens! the sacrifice of life!

Murder, plunder, leagued in band,
Stalk amid thee, hand in hand;—
Cedron is a pool of gore,

Olivet is fortress made.

Mercy! that the towers of yore,

Courts that saw the world adore,
Should in dust and blood be laid!
Who directs the furious war?
He, alone, whose prescience saw—
Mightier than Vespasian's son-
He the ruthless fight has won.
He the wine-press here has trod,
He, the very Son of God!

William B. Tappan.

345

The Memorial of Mary.

There came unto him a woman having an alabaster box of very precious ointment, and poured it on his head as he sat at meat.-ST. MATTHEW Xxvi. 7

THOU hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee;
Where'er beneath some oriental tree,

The Christian traveler rests-where'er the child

Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known-where'er the Book of Light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above;
Oh! say, what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame?

One lowly office of exceeding love!

Felicia Hemans.

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Blessing the Bread.

And as they were eating, Jesus took bread and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to his disciples, and said, "Take, eat; this is my body." And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, "Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins." ST. MATTHEW xxvi. 26-28.

ONWARD it speeds, the awful hour from man's first fall de

creed,

When the dark serpent's wrath shall bruise the woman's spotless seed;

The foe He met—the desert path triumphantly He trod,
And now a darker, deadlier strife awaits the Son of God.

Soon shall a strange and midnight gloom involve the conscious Heaven,

While in Jehovah's mystic fane the inmost veil is riven!
Soon shall one deep and dying groan the solid mountains

rend;

The yawning grave shall yield their dead, the buried saints

ascend!

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