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So once every day, till the sixth day had run,
They compassed the city as due as the sun ;
So, as Joshua commanded, the trumpets were blown,
To tell that the reign of its glory was gone ;
So the leaguer began—and the ominous din
Shook the heart of the heathen that trembled within.

Ye warriors of Israel ! ye priests of the Lord ! Ye last with the ark, and ye first with the sword ! On this seventh day go ye seven times round This city of Canaan that cumbers the ground; And when 'tis accomplished, the trump shall be blown, The people shall shout, and the walls be o'erthrown.'

Around and around went the ark of the Lord,
Around and around went the armed with the sword,
Around and around the wide circle they passed, -
Till the city did reel like a drunkard at last.
And then came the shout, and the trumpets' long sound,
And the high walls of Jericho fell to the ground.

Now rush to the slaughter-ye Israelites rush ! For the blood of the young and the aged shall gush; And the husband and spouse in their dwelling shall fall, And the sheep in the pen, and the ox at the stall ; And cursed be he, the name of the Lord, Ry whom shall this city at last be restored !

The slaughter began--and the city was drunk
With the red streams that flowed from the crowds as they

sunk, From the youth that was strong, and the maid that was

gay,
And the stricken in years, and the child of a day";
Till the fire of the victors the carnage consumed,
And Jericho lay in her ashes entombed.

Knox.

HOPE IN THE RESURRECTION.

Through sorrow's night and danger's path,

Amid the deepening gloom,
We soldiers of an injured king

Are marching to the tomb.

There, when the turmoil is no more,

And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude

Shall sleep the years away.

Our labours done, securely laid

In this our last retreat,
Unheeded o'er our silent dust

The storms of life shall beat.

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie,
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise

To seek its kindred sky.

These ashes too, this little dust,

Our father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise and break

The long and dreary sleep.

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye

Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.

H. K. White.

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THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away ;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve,
Called thy harvest work to leave ;
Pray ! ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee,

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;

Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain ;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie;
Heaven's first star alike yo see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee.

Mrs Hemans.

BOWER OF ROSES.

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ;
In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream,
To sit in the roses and hear the bird's

song
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year,
I think-is the nightingale singing there yet ?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ?

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No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave,
But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.

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