I praise Thee, I bless Thee, my King and my God,
For the good and the evil Thy hand hath bestowed;
The flowers were sweet, but their fragrance is flown,
They yielded no fruits, they are withered and gone.
The thorn it was poignant, but precious to me,
'Twas the message of mercy: it led me to Thee,

LADY ABEL SMITH.

THE THREE TABERNACLES.
St. Matt. xvii. 4.

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build. But for whom?

Nor Elias, nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to ambition? Oh, no!
Affrighted he shrinketh away:

For see they would pin him below,

In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets

The charms which she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which but yesterday fools could adore

For the smoothness it held, and the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas, they are all laid aside!

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed

But the long-winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain!
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:

The treasures are squandered again :

And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel which shone on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford? The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to affection and love?

Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve!

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear : Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known;

And here there are trophies enow:

Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown.

The first Tabernacle to HOPE we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise. The second to FAITH, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

THE LARK.

How sweet is the song of the lark as she springs
To welcome the morning with joy on her wings!
The higher she rises, the sweeter she sings;

And she sings when we hear her no more.
When storms and dark clouds veil the sun from our sight
She has mounted above them, she shines in his light:
Where, far from the scenes which disturb and affright,
She loves her gay music to pour.

It is thus with the Christian; he sees from afar
The day-spring appearing, the bright morning star :
He quits this dark valley of sorrow and care,

For the land whence the radiance is given:

He sings on his way from the cloud-covered spot The quicker his progress, the sweeter his note: When we hear him no longer, the song ceases not; It blends with the choirs of heaven.

THE COMPLAINT.

O YOU, who at lighter afflictions repine,
Arrest your complainings, and listen to mine:
And you who can sorrow for every toy,
Hear a mother's complaint for her poor idiot boy.

Still memory tells of that moment of bliss,
When I pressed on his forehead a mother's first kiss;
When committing the gift to the hand that had given,
A mother's first prayer sought acceptance in heaven.

I asked not for beauty, I asked not for wealth;
The prayer was for reason, contentment, and health,
That reflection might temper the fervour of youth,
And his heart be the seat of religion and truth.

My babe he was lovely in infantine charms,
And often, as sweetly he slept in my arms,
O GOD! I exclaimed, what delight it will be
To rear him to virtue, to truth, and to Thee!

And fondly I waited the moment so dear,

When my baby should part from my arms with a tear; When his sweet voice should greet me with accents of

joy :

But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy.

When the glittering trinket was held in his sight,
My infant would utter no scream of delight;
When gently compelled from my bosom to part,
No cry of unwillingness gladdened my heart.

His lovely blue eyes never wandered around,
To seek for his mother, or greet her when found:
These promised delights were not mine to enjoy ;
All arms were alike to the poor idiot boy.

His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak;
No tear of emotion e'er stole on his cheek,
Nor frown ever sat on his forehead of snow,
Nor flush of desire was traced on his brow.

The first year, the second, my grief was beguiled
With the fond hope that reason would dawn on my

child:

But hope is no longer; for seven sad years

He has laid in my bosom, bedewed with my tears.

In vain I caress him, and lure him to speak;
He feels not the warm tear that falls on his cheek;
No look of intelligence brightens his eye;

A void vacant stare is his only reply.