AFFLICTION.

II. Cor. iv. 17, 18.

THE path of sorrow, and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller e'er reach'd that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers on his road.
For He, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still;
In pity to the souls his grace design'd

To rescue from the ruins of mankind ;
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears!"
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!

O salutary streams that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil, indeed, their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;
An envious world will interpose its frown,
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.

COWPER.

THE EVENING HOUR.

It is an hour of holy hush and calm,

Of dewy stillness breathing from each vale, Of birds' low vesper, and of fragrant balm,

Borne whispering low upon the twilight gale; With faint sound mingled of the distant chime Of Sabbath-bell at this calm even-time.

It is an hour of rest to all the earth:

The village-hamlet and its noise are still, And hush'd to sleep is childhood's voice of mirth, And nought is heard but the low singing rill; Or voice of bell from yonder ivied tower, With solemn sound proclaiming the past hour.

It is an hour when twilight shadows rise,
And earth and ocean rest beneath the gloom,
And the first star appears in yonder skies,

Telling of realms beyond the silent tomb; While night comes on with her lone starry train, And the young moon sheds forth her light again.

It is an hour when holy thoughts arise,

An hour to bend in still and solemn prayer, To call each thought back to those starry skies, And view with wonder those bright myriads there,

Spread out afar by the same wondrous power, Who gave to wearied man eve's tranquil hour. ARLISS.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH-YARD.

WHAT a varying scene is a village church-yard,
How solemn, how sad, then how gay;
How oft has the mourner wept o'er its sod,
How oft has the foot of the mirthful trod
Its paths on a festive day!

'Tis the Sabbath morn, and the pealing bell Tolls deep from the ivied tower;

While the oaken porch and the neighbouring yew Are throng'd by the crowds who attend to renew Their vows at that sacred hour.

With that holy calm, that composure of soul,
Which is joy though devoid of mirth ;

With devotion diffusing sweet peace through the breast,

They hail the return of the day of rest,
Which to them is a heaven on earth.

It is evening and now from the turret grey
Tolls forth a more solemn sound;

And I see in the distance a funeral train
As they silently move o'er the village plain,
To the gate of the hallowed ground.

It was lately I stood by a sister's grave,
My heart has not ceased to feel;
I follow'd her corse to its lowly cell,
I wept as I heard her funeral knell-
There was anguish in its peal.

And now as I join with the sorrowing band,
I can hear the low bursting sigh;

'Tis the moment the beautiful prayer has been said, And the earth has been closed o'er the loved one dead

How deep is the agony?

But the evening is pass'd, and the mourners are gone,

And the sun rises smiling and gay;

And now, oh how changed is the village green! How changed is the church-yard where sadness had been,

On the eve of the Sabbath-day!

Again the old tower rings a merry peal,
And in many a heart there is mirth;

But I sigh, though I've looked on the bridal maid,
As I turn to the spot where so lately was laid,
That corse in its cold, cold earth.

For oh! what is life ?—'tis a varying scene,
Like a church-yard, from solemn to gay:
And religion alone can diffuse through the whole,
That devotional calm, which each worshipper's soul
Enjoyed on that Sabbath-day.

SUBMISSION.

AMIDST the various scenes of ills,
Each stroke some kind design fulfils;
And shall I murmur at my God,
When sovereign love directs the rod ?

Peace, rebel thoughts, I'll not complain,
My Father's smiles suspend my pain;
Smiles that a thousand joys impart,
And pour the balm that heals my heart.

Though heaven afflict, I'll not repine,
A heart-felt comfort still is mine;
Comfort that shall o'er death prevail,
And journey with me through the vale.
My Saviour! smooth my rugged way,
And lead me to the realms of day:
To milder skies and brighter plains,
Where everlasting sunshine reigns.

COTTON.

DIVINE LOVE.

THERE's nothing bright, above, below, From flower that blooms to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of the Deity..

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

MOORE.