THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Ere these received their name or birth,
She dwelt in heaven, she smiled on earth:
Of all celestial graces bless'd,

The first-the last--the greatest-best.

When faith and hope, from earth set free,
Are lost in boundless ecstacy,

Eternal daughter of the skies,

She mounts to heaven--and never dies!

THOMAS RAFFLES.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

BLEST hour! when mortal man retires
To hold communion with his God,
To send to heaven his warm desires,
And listen to his sacred word.

Blest hour! when earthly cares resign
Their empire o'er his anxious breast;
While all around, the calm divine
Proclaims the holy day of rest.

Blest hour! when God himself draws nigh,
Well pleased his people's voice to hear;

To list the penitential sigh,

And wipe away the mourner's tear.

Blest hour!-for then where he resorts,
Foretastes of future bliss are given,

And mortals find his earthly courts,
The house of God, the gate of heaven.

Hail! peaceful hour, supremely blest
Amid the hours of earthly care!
The hour that yields the spirit rest,
That sacred hour-the hour of prayer.

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And when my hours of prayer are past, Oh! may I leave these Sabbath days, To find eternity at last

A never-ending hour of praise.

JAMES CALLANAN.

IF I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST.

SHINE on, thou bright beacon,
Unclouded and free,

From thy high place of calmness
O'er life's troubled sea;
Its morning of promise,

Its smooth waves are gone,
And the billows roar wildly;
Then, bright one, shine on.
The wings of the tempest
May rush o'er the ray;.
But tranquil thou smilest,
Undimm'd by its sway;

High, high o'er the worlds

Where the storms are unknown,

Thou dwellest all beauteous,

All glorious,—alone.

From the deep womb of darkness

The lightning-flash leaps,

O'er the bark of my

fortunes

CONSOLATION.

When the voice of the storm
Shall be silent and past,
In some island of Heaven
We may anchor at last.
But, bark of eternity,

Where art thou now?

The wild waters shriek

O'er each plunge of thy prow;
On the world's dreary ocean
Thus shatter'd and tost;-

Then, lone one, shine on,
"If I lose Thee, I'm lost."

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THOMAS DALE.

CONSOLATION.

THE loved, but not the lost,
Oh, no! they have not ceased to be,
Nor live alone in memory;

'Tis we, who still are toss'd

O'er life's wild sea, 'tis we who die:

They only live, whose life is immortality.

The loved, but not the lost,

Why should our ceaseless tears be shed
O'er the cold turf that wraps the dead,
As if their names were cross'd

From out the book of life? Ah no!

Tis we who scarcely live, that linger still below.

The loved, but not the lost,
In heaven's own panoply arrayed,
They met the conflict undismayed;
They counted well the cost

Of battle-now their crown is won;

Our sword is scarce unsheathed, our warfare just begun.

Have they not passed away

From all that dims the tearful eye;
From all that wakes the ceaseless sigh:

From all the pangs that prey

On the bereaved heart, and most

When conscience dares not say, the loved, but not the lost?

This is the woe of woes!

The one o'er-mastering agony;

To watch the sleep of those who die,
And feel 'tis not repose:

But they, who join the heavenly host,

Why should we mourn for them, the loved, but not the lost?

The spirit was but born,

The soul unfettered, when they fled
From earth, the living, not the dead,

Then wherefore should we mourn?

WE, the wave-driven, the tempest-toss'd, When shall we be with them, the loved, but not the lost?

REFLECTIONS ON RETIRING TO REST.

Ir is good, when we lay on the pillow our head,
And the silence of night all around us is spread,
To reflect on the deeds we have done through the day,
Nor allow it to pass without profit away.

A day-what a trifle !—and yet the amount

Of the days we have pass'd form an awful account:
And the time may arrive when the world we would give,
Were it ours, might we have but another to live.

In whose service have we through the day been employed,
And what are the pleasures we mostly enjoyed?
Our desires and our wishes, to what did they tend—
To the world we are in, or the world without end?

THE GREEN PASTURES.

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Hath the sense of His presence encompass'd us round, Without whom not a sparrow can fall to the ground? Have our hearts turn'd to Him with devotion most true, Or been occupied only with things that we view?

Have we often reflected how soon we must go
To the mansions of bliss, or the regions of woe?
Have we felt unto God a repentance sincere,
And in faith to the Saviour of sinners drawn near?

Let us then with ourselves solemn conference hold,
Ere sleep's silken fetters our senses enfold;
And forgiveness implore for the sins of the day,
Nor allow them to pass unrepented away.

MRS. DUNCAN.

THE GREEN PASTURES.*

I WALKED in a field of fresh clover this morn,
Where lambs play'd so merrily under the trees,
Or rubbed their soft coats on a naked old thorn,
Or nibbled the clover, or rested at ease.

And under the hedge ran a clear water brook,
To drink from, when thirsty, or weary with play;
And so gay did the daisies and buttercups look,
That I thought little lambs must be happy all day,

And when I remember the beautiful psalm,

That tells about Christ and his pastures so green; I know he is willing to make me his lamb,

And happier far than the lambs I have seen.

* This and some other pieces, equally simple and beautiful, are taken from a delightful little work, entitled "School-room Lyrics," published in 1846, by Darton and Clark, of London,