Such is life,—a breath, a span,

A moment quickly gone from thee.

What is death ?-Oh! mortal man!

Thy entrance on eternity.

LIFE, DEATH, AND ETERITY.

A SHADOW moving by one's side.

That would a substance seem,

[Anon.

That is, yet is not,-though descried— Like skies beneath the stream:

A tree that's ever in the bloom,

Whose fruit is never ripe;

A wish for joys that never come,—
Such are the hopes of Life.

A dark, inevitable night;

A blank that will remain ;

A waiting for the morning light,
When waiting is in vain;

A gulf where pathway never led

To show the depth beneath;

A thing we know not, yet we dread,— That dreaded thing is Death.

The vaulted void of purple sky,

That everywhere extends,

That stretches from the dazzled eye,
In space that never ends;

A morning, whose uprisen sun
No setting e'er shall see ;

A day that comes without a noon,

Such is Eternity.

ON PRAYER.

[Cunningham.

THROUGH the skies when the thunder is

hurl'd

The child to its parent will flee;

Thus amidst the rebukes of the world,
I turn, O my Father, to thee!

In vain would they bid me retire ;

In vain would they silence my prayer; 'Tis eye-sight, 'tis life, I require ;

I seek to be snatch'd from despair.

In this valley of sorrow and strife,

Prayer shall rise with my earliest breath;

It shall mix in the business of life,

And soften the struggles of death.

ON PRAYER.

LORD, when we bend before thy throne,

And our confessions pour,

Teach us to feel the sins we own,

And shun what we deplore.

Our contrite spirits pitying see,
And penitence impart;

And let a healing ray from thee
Beam hope upon the heart.

When our responsive tongues essay

Their grateful songs to raise;

Grant that our souls may join the lay,

And rise to thee in praise.

When we disclose our wants in prayer

May we our wills resign;

And not a thought our bosom share,

Which is not wholly thine.

Let faith each meek petition fill,

And waft it to the skies;

And teach our hearts 'tis goodness still

That grants it or denies.

THE COMPLAINT.

IT is not that my lot is low,

[H. K. White.

That bids this silent tear to flow;

It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest,

When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs

With hallowed air and symphonies,