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THE SPIRIT-LAND.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand,
Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed;
Around us ever lies the enchanted land,
In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed;
In finding thee are all things round us found;
In losing thee are all things lost beside;
Ears have we, but in vain strange voices sound;
And to our eyes the vision is denied ;
We wander in the country far remote,
Mid tombs and ruined piles in death to dwell;
Or on the records of past greatness dote,
And for a buried soul the living sell;
While on our path bewildered falls the night
That ne'er returns us to the fields of light.

JONES VERY.

THERE IS A LAND OF PURE DELIGHT.
THERE is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign;
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heavenly land from ours.

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green;
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.

But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,
And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

O, could we make our doubts remove,
Those gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes,

Could we but climb where Moses stood,

And view the landscape o'er,

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood, Should fright us from the shore.

ISAAC WATTS.

Within the brightness of thy face,

And our soul

In the scroll

Of life and blissfulness enroll,

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BEYOND these chilling winds and gloomy skies,
Beyond death's cloudy portal,

That we may praise thee to eternity. Allelujah! There is a land where beauty never dies,

JEREMY TAYLOR.

Where love becomes immortal;

A land whose life is never dimmed by shade,

Whose fields are ever vernal;
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade,
But blooms for aye eternal.

We may not know how sweet its balmy air,
How bright and fair its flowers;

We may not hear the songs that echo there, Through those enchanted bowers.

The city's shining towers we may not see
With our dim earthly vision,

For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key
That opes the gates elysian.

But sometimes, when adown the western sky
A fiery sunset lingers,

Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly,
Unlocked by unseen fingers.

And while they stand a moment half ajar,
Gleams from the inner glory
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar
And half reveal the story.

O land unknown! O land of love divine!
Father, all-wise, eternal !

O, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine
Into those rastures vernal !

"ONLY WAITING."

ANONYMOUS.

[A very aged man in an almshouse was asked what he was doing now. He replied, "Only waiting."]

ONLY waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart, once full of day;
Till the stars of heaven are breaking
Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home,
For the summer time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers! gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,
And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,

At whose feet I long have lingered,

Weary, poor, and desolate.

Even now I hear the footsteps,
And their voices far away;

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They'll home again, full laden, to thy door; The streams of love flow back where they begin, For springs of outward joys lie deep within.

Even let them flow, and make the places glad Where dwell thy fellow-men. Shouldst thou be sad, And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear The music of those waters running near; And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, And thine eye gladden with the playing beam That now upon the water dances, now Leap up and dances in the hanging bough.

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell The power that wrought so beautiful a spell? In thine own bosom, Brother? Then as thine Guard with a reverent fear this power divine.

And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state,
But temper of the soul by which we rate
Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom move
With noble thoughts and wake thee into love,
And let each feeling in thy breast be given
An honest aim, which, sanctified by Heaven,
And springing into act, new life imparts,
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts.
Sin clouds the mind's clear vision,
Around the self-starved soul has spread a dearth.
The earth is full of life; the living Hand
Touched it with life; and all its forms expand
With principles of being made to suit

Man's varied powers and raise him from the brute.
And shall the earth of higher ends be full,
Earth which thou tread'st, — and thy poor mind
be dull ?

Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep?

Thou "living dead man," let thy spirit leap
Forth to the day, and let the fresh air blow
Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. Wouldst
thou know

Something of what is life, shake off this death;
Have thy soul feel the universal breath
With which all nature's quick, and learn to be
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see;
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance;
Give thy soul air, thy faculties expanse ;
Love, joy, even sorrow, - yield thyself to all!
They make thy freedom, groveller, not thy thrall.
Knock off the shackles which thy spirit bind
To dust and sense, and set at large the mind!
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole,
And be like man at first, a LIVING SOUL.

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Nothing but leaves; memory weaves
No veil to screen the past:

As we retrace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
We find, sadly, at last,
Nothing but leaves !

And shall we meet the Master so,
Bearing our withered leaves?
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit ;
We stand before him, humbled, mute;
Waiting the words he breathes,
"Nothing but leaves?"

ANONYMOUS.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

How calm they sleep beneath the shade
Who once were weary of the strife,
And bent, like us, beneath the load
Of human life!

The willow hangs with sheltering grace
And benediction o'er their sod,
And Nature, hushed, assures the soul
They rest in God.

O weary hearts, what rest is here,
From all that curses yonder town!
So deep the peace, I almost long
To lay me down.

For, O, it will be blest to sleep,

Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, Till wakened in immortal strength And heavenly light!

CRAMMOND KENNEDY.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

FATHER of all! in every age,

In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.

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