THE OLD MAN'S BIRTHDAY.

"My birthday!" what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as youth counts the shining links
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last!

Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said, were he ordain'd to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done.
Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays speaks to me!
Far otherwise! of time it tells

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly;

Of counsel mock'd; of talents made.
Haply for high and pure designs,

66 LOOK ALOFT."

153

But oft, like Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy earthly shrines! All this it tells;-and could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay, How quickly all would melt away!

MOORE.

"LOOK ALOFT."

IN the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale

Are around and above, if thy footing should

fail,

If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,

"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow,

With a smile for each joy and a tear for each

wo,

Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds

are array'd,

"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which Hope spreads in light

to thine

eye,

Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,

Then turn, and through tears of repentant

regret,

"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the loved of thy heart,

The friends of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, "Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb

To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And oh! when Death comes in his terrors, to

cast

His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,

And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and

depart.

LAWRENCE.

THE CHILD AND THE SERAPH.

A little child, A little meek-faced, quiet village-child, Sat singing by her cottage-door at eve A low sweet Sabbath-song. No human ear Caught the faint melody—no human eye Beheld the upturn'd aspect, or the smile That wreath'd her innocent lips the while they breathed

The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, "Praise God! praise God!"

A seraph by the throne

In the full glory stood. With
With eager hand
He smote the golden harp-strings, till a flood
Of harmony on the celestial air

Well'd forth unceasing. Then with a great voice
He sang the "Holy, holy, evermore,

Lord God Almighty!" and the eternal courts
Thrill'd with the rapture, and the hierarchies,
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbb'd and burn'd
With vehement adoration. Higher yet

Rose the majestic anthem, without pause,
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound,
To its full strength; and still the infinite
heaven.

Rang with the "Holy, holy, evermore !”—
Till, trembling from excessive awe and love,
Each sceptred spirit sank before the throne,
With a mute hallelujah. But, even then,
While the ecstatic song was at its height,
Stole in an alien voice -a voice that seem'd
To float, float upward from some world afar—
A meek and child-like voice,—faint, but how
sweet!—

That blended with the seraph's rushing strain,
Even as a fountain's music with the roll
Of the reverberate thunder. Loving smiles
Lit up the beauty of each angel's face
At that new utterance-smiles of joy that grew
More joyous yet, as ever and anon

Was heard the simple burden of the hymn,
"Praise God! praise God!" And when the
seraph's song

Had reach'd its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding-when the eternal courts Rung but with echoes of his chant sublime, Still, through the abysmal space, that wandering voice

Came floating upward from its world afar, Still murmuring sweet on the celestial air, "Praise God! praise God!"

BIBLE CLASS MAGAZINE.