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Till are dried the martyr's tears,
Through a glorious thousand years.
Now in hope of Him we trust-
• Earth to earth, and dust to dust.'

Rev. G, Cnoly.

AWAKE, SWEET HARP.

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ;
We sing the Saviour of our race,
The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place.

When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh where shall man retire,
T
escape

the horrors of his ire?

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by :
God sees his Well-beloved's face.
And spares us in our hiding-place.

Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.

While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow; Fall'n, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place,

Yet courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside ;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.

H. K. WHITE.

FALL OF THE LEAF.:

See the leaves around us falling,

Dry and wither'd to the ground;
Thus to thoughtless mortals calling,

In a sad and solemn sound.

Sons of Adam, once in Eden,

Blighted whence, like us, ye fell :
Hear the lecture we are reading ;

'Tiş, alas! the truth we tell.

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Virgins, much, too much presuming

On your boasted white and red ; View us, late in beauty blooming,

Number'd now among the dead.

Griping misers, nightly waking,

See the end of all your care: Fled on wings of our own making,

We have left our owners bare.

Sons of honour, fed on praises,

Flutt'ring high in fancied worth Lo the fickle air that raises,

Brings us down to parent-earth.

Learned sophs, in systems jaded,,

Who for new ones daily call; Cease at length, by us persuaded,

Every leaf must have it's fall,

Youths, though yet no losses grieve you,

Gay in health and manly grace; Let not cloudless skies deceive you,

Summer gives to Autumn place.

Venerable sires, grown hoary,

Hither turn th' unwilling eye; Think, amidst your falling glory,

Autumn tells a Winter nigh,

Yearly in our course returning,

Messengers of shortest stay; Thus we preach this truth concerning,

"Heaven and earth shall pass away."

On the tree of life eternal,

Man, let all thy hopes be stayed ; Which, alone, for ever vernal,

Bears a "leaf that shall not fade."

BISHOP IIORNE.

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