THE BIBLE.

Ir is the one True Light,

That, when all other lamps grow dim, Shall never burn less purely bright, Nor lead astray from HIM.

It is Love's blessed band,

That reaches from the eternal throne To him-whoe'er he be-whose hand Will seize it for his own!

It is the Golden Key

To treasures of celestial wealth,

Joy to the sons of poverty,

And to the sick man, health!

The gently proffer'd aid

Of one who knows us, and can best Supply the beings he has made

With what will make them bless'd.

It is the sweetest sound

That infant years delight to hear, Travelling across that holy ground, With God and angels near.

There rests the weary head,

There age and sorrow love to go; And how it smooths the dying bed, O! let the Christian show'

SONNET.

THE GOD OF THE STORM AND THE WHIRLWIND.

THOU thy stern robe of terrors hast put on,
O mighty Ruler of the winds and waves!
The spirit bows to thee !—from ocean caves
Even to the expansive heaven of heavens, thy throne,
All elements, all beings trembling own

The greatness of thy presence.

'Tis the hour
Of vast, unmitigated, boundless power,
And the heart bends to Thee, and Thee alone.
Most Mighty! O how bless'd to feel and know,

Even in this hour of dread, that dear to thee
Is the confiding spirit. Ye may blow,

Fierce tempests! but to pass His fix'd decree, Or 'gainst His will one moment's war to wage, Is more than ye can do, with all your swelling rage.

PEACE.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell?—I humbly

crave

Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave,

And ask'd if Peace were there.

A hollow sound did seem to answer, "No:
Go, seek elsewhere."

I did, and, going, did a rainbow note.

"Surely," thought I,

"This is the lace of Peace's coat;

I will search out the matter."

But, while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower—

The Crown Imperial. "Sure,” said I,
"Peace at the root must dwell."

But, when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length, I met a reverend, good old man ;
Whom, when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began :

"There was a prince of old

In Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes:

But, after death, out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat,

Which many, wondering at, got some of those, To plant and set.

"It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth.

For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtue lies therein;

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight from sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

And grows for you:

Make bread of it; and that repose

And peace which everywhere

With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there."

THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS.

SWEET is the scene when virtue dies!
When sinks a righteous soul to rest,
How mildly beam the closing eyes!
How gently heaves the expiring breast!

So fades a summer cloud away;

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ;
So gently shuts the eye of day;
So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow,
Fann'd by some angel's purple wing:
Where is, O Grave! thy victory now?
And where, insidious Death! thy sting?

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears,

Where light and shade alternate dwell:
How bright the unchanging morn appears!
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell!

Its duty done-as sinks the clay,
Light from its load the spirit flies;
While heaven and earth combine to say,
"Sweet is the scene when virtue dies."

LOVE TO CHRIST.

If Love, the noblest, purest, best,
If Truth, all other truth above,
Will claim returns from every breast,
O, surely Jesus claims our love!

OUR LOVE! yea, sooner may the hand
Forget its office, than the heart,
Once taught His love to understand,
Desert its own appointed part.

There's not a hope, with comfort fraught,
Triumphant over death and time,
But Jesus mingles in that thought,
Forerunner of our course sublime.

His image meets me in the hour
Of joy, and brightens every smile;
I see him when the tempests lower,
Each terror soothe, each grief beguile.

I see him in the daily round

Of social duty, mild and meek; With him I tread the hallow'd ground, Communion with my God to seek.

I see his pitying, gentle eye,

When lonely want appeals for aid;

I hear him in the frequent sigh,

That mourns the waste which sin has made.