When the heaven shall flee from the voice of Thy thunder,

And the sun, in Thy lightnings, grow languid and pale,

And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave

asunder,

In the hour of thy terrors, let mercy prevail !

BISHOP HEBER.

THE KING AND HIS ARMY.

THE SON of GOD goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar :
Who follows in His train?

Who best can drink his cup of woe,

Triumphant over pain;

Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in His train.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
Who saw his Master in the sky,

And called on Him to save.

A glorious band, the chosen few

On whom the Spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, And mocked the cross and flame.

A noble army, men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around the SAVIOUR'S Throne rejoice,
In robes of light arrayed.

They climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain.

O GOD, to us may grace be given
To follow in their train!

PRAYER.

THERE is an eye that never sleeps
Beneath the wing of night;
There is an ear which never shuts,
When sink the beams of light.
There is an arm which never tires,
When human strength gives way;

There is a love which never fails,
When human loves decay.

That eye pervades the seraph's throng,

That ear is filled with angels' song;

That arm upholds the world on high,
That love extends beyond the sky.

But there's a power that man can wield,
When mortal aid is vain;

That eye, that arm, that power to reach,
That listening ear to gain.

That power is Prayer; which soars on high,
And looks for bliss beyond the sky.-

HEAVEN IS ALL.

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's short journey given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow;

There's nothing true but heaven.

And false the light of glory's plume
As fading hues of even;

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb;
There's nothing bright but heaven.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven;

And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way;

There's nothing calm but heaven.

T. MOORE.

THE BELIEVER'S DEATH.

IN vain our fancy strives to paint
The moment after death;
The glories that surround the saint,
When he resigns his breath.

One gentle sigh his fetters breaks,
We scarce can say, "he's gone,"
Before the willing spirit takes

Her mansion near the Throne.

Faith strives, but all its efforts fail
To trace her heavenly flight,

No

eye can pierce within the veil Which hides that world of light.

Thus much (and this is all we know)

They are supremely blest;

Have done with sin, and care, and woe,
And with their SAVIOUR rest.

On harps of gold His Name they praise;
His face they always view:
Then followers let us be of them,
That we may praise Him too.

Their faith and patience, love and zeal,
Should make their memory dear;
And LORD, do Thou the prayers fulfil,
They offered for us here.

While they have gained, we losers are,
We miss them day by day;

But Thou canst every breach repair,

And wipe our tears away.

When great Elijah went :

May double portions of Thy grace,
On us who stay be sent.

NEWTON.

HOPE IN TROUBLE.

WHEN musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain,
How sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain!

'Tis not that murmuring thoughts arise,
And dread a Father's will;
"Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still.

It is that heaven-taught faith surveys
The paths to realms of light,

And longs her eagle plume to raise,
And lose herself in sight.

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