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The unwearied sun,from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,

"The hand that made us is divine!"

JOSEPH ADDISON.

Son-dayes.

RIGHT shadows of true rest! some shoots of blisse:

BRIG

Heaven once a week:

The next world's gladnesse prepossesst in this ;

A day to seek:

Eternity in time: the steps by which

We climb above all ages: lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days: and the rich
And full redemption of the whole week's flight!

THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE

The pulleys unto headlong man: time's bower;
The narrow way;

Transplanted Paradise: God's walking houre:
The cool o' the day!

The creature's jubilee; God's parbe with dust:

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Heaven here; man on those hills of myrrh and flowres ; Angels descending; the returns of trust;

A gleam of glory after six-days-showres!

The Churche's love-feasts: time's prerogative,
And interest

Deducted from the whole: the combs and hive,
And home of rest;

The milky-way chalkt out with suns; a clue,

That guides through erring homes; and in full story, A taste of heaven on earth: the pledge and cue Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory. HENRY VAUGHAN.

The Spiritual Temple.

["And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither; so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building."—1 KINGS, vi. 7. See also chap. v. 7-18.]

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ND whence, then, came these goodly stones 't was
Israel's pride to raise,

The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days;
In purity and strength erect, in radiant splendor bright,
Sparkling with golden beams of noon, or silver smiles of
night?

From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought,

In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains

wrought;

There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing

rocks,

There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, unshapen blocks.

Thence polished. perfected, complete, each fitted to its place,

For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base,

They bore them o'er the waves that rolled their billowy swell

between

The shores of Tyre's imperial pride and Judah's hills of green.

With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years,

Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen

tears;

And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp it rose,— Fit dwelling for the God of Peace! a temple of repose!

Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply;
Our God himself a temple builds, eternal and on high,
Of souls elect; their Zion there-that world of light and

bliss ;

Their Lebanon-the place of toil-of previous moulding

this.

From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews

The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose: Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to

shine,

Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine.

THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE.

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Oh, glorious process! see the proud grow lowly, gentle,

meek;

See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened

cheek:

Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol fond;

Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender bond.

Behold he prays whose lips were sealed in silent scorn before;

Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door; Behold he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past: Oh! for more mouldings of the hand that works a change so vast!

Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured,—

What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured!

But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it

gave,

Ere Jesus bore his servant home, across the darksome wave ?

Home to the place his grace designed that chosen soul to fill, In the bright temple of the saved, "upon his holy hill;" Home to the noiselessness, the peace of those sweet shrines above,

Whose stones shall never be displaced-set in redeeming love.

Lord, chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away,
Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array;
And thus, thine image on us stamped, transport us to the
shore,

Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more.

J. T.

POOR

Soul and Body.

A SONNET.

soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Foiled by those r hel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

And let that pine, to aggravate thy store! By terms divine in selling hours of dross!

Within be fed, without be rich no more! So shalt thou feed on death that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

The Lord the Good Shepherd.

HE Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know;

Ti feed in green pastures, safe-folded I rest;

He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow,
Restores me when wandering, redeems when oppressed.

Through the valley and shadow of death though I stray,
Since thou art my guardian, no evil I fear;
Thy rod shall defend me, thy staff be my stay;
No harm can befall with my Comforter near.

In the midst of affliction my table is spread;
With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth o'er;
With perfume and oil thou anointest my head;

O! what shall I ask of thy providence more?

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