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النشر الإلكتروني

172

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

Or have ye in the roar

Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,
Where wings and tempests never soar?

Go, go-no other sound,

No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,
On midnight's fathomless profound!

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

BY HENRY WARE, JR.

To prayer, to prayer;-for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes.
His light is on all below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer; for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on.
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his children repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.

To prayer;-for the day that God has bless'd
Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of creation's early bloom;

It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb.
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers,
And devote to Heaven the hallow'd hours.

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies.
O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows.

Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends;
There is peace in his eye that upward bends;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air;

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For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to sooth, and to cheer.
It commends the spirit to GOD who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;
It points to the glory where he shall reign,

Who whisper'd, "Thy brother shall rise again,”

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WINTER.

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.
To him who unceasing love displays,

Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

WINTER.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

I DEEM thee not unlovely, though thou comest With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird, The blushing floweret, the rejoicing stream, Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry. Thy lengthen'd eve is full of fireside joys, And deathless linking of warm heart to heart, So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard. Earth, robed in white, a peaceful Sabbath holds, And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet. She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough, And from the h harvest-shouting. Man should rest Thus from his fever'd passions, and exhale The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought, And drink in holy health. As the toss'd bark

WINTER.

Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shatter'd cordage, and restore

Its riven sails-so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Sour'd by the world's sharp commerce, or impair'd
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save. The ruddy boy

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Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport,
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
Hangs, pure and cold, its twinkling cresset forth,
And, throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Asks of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven

To "bless the lad." The timid infant learns
Better to love its sire-and longer sits

Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip

Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath never spoken. Come thou to life's feast
With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts
The minstrel teacher of thy well-tuned soul,
And when the last drop of its cup is drain'd―
Arising with a song of praise-go up
To the eternal banquet,

"GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!"

BY R. W. EMERSON.

GOOD-BYE, proud world! I'm going home; Thou art not my friend; I am not thine; Too long through weary crowds I roam— A river ark on the ocean brine,

Too long I am toss'd like the driven foam—
But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace:
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,

To those who go, and those who come,

Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home.

I

go to seek my own hearth-stone Bosom'd in yon green hills alone;

A secret lodge in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd,
Where arches green, the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And evil men have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and GOD.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,

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