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Jesus is thy pilot wise,

Christian, fear not, He is near;

Lord of earth, and sea, and skies,
He thy feeble bark shall steer,

Till the storms—the dangers past,

Thou shalt gain heaven's port at last.

PAUL THE AGED.

"yet for love's sake I rather beseech thee, being such an one as Paul the aged, and now also a prisoner of Jesus Christ."—Philemon, ver. 9.

See in yon lonely prison cell
An aged man, his white hairs tell
Of waning years, and o'er his brow
The deepening shades of sorrow grow.
Can this be he, the man of pride,
Who lived a Saviour to deride 1
Who sought to slay the saints of God
With persecution's iron rod;

Who, breathing slaughter as a flame,

Brought death and woe where'er he came?

Aye! 'tis the same, but where the ire

That proudly swelled his eye of fire?

And the stern frown that o'er his brow

Cast its dark shade—where is it now?

His eyes have lost their flash of pride,

For they have seen the Crucified;

And now with holy fervour burn

As raised in prayer to heaven they turn.

His grateful spirit longs to tell

Of the true friend he loved so well;

His heart is tuned to sing the praise

Of Jesu's name in glowing lays.

And in that lonely prison-room,

Heedless of its sad, cheerless gloom,

He breathes the words of peace and love,

Filled with an unction from above.

Blest martyr! now thy course is run—

The battle fought, the victory won;

For thee a crown of glory waits,
And heaven unfolds her golden gates.
Soon shall thy gracious Master say,
"Come, faithful servant, come away,
Where streams of endless pleasures roll,
There Shalt thou rest thy weary soul."

THE DYING GIRL.

"and it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom."— Luke xvi. 22.

"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation."— Heb. i. 14.

"Loosen thy hold, sweet mother, let me go, And leave this land—this mournful land of

woe; I long to flee away, and be at rest— To lay my weary head on Jesu's breast;

I long to see His face, whose precious blood
Was shed for me, and brought my soul to God.
A few brief years of sorrow hare I past,
In this dark dreary wilderness, and fast
Glide the swift moments by, that still remain
Of my short sojourn in this world of pain;
Peace, gentle friends, nor call my spirit back,
Why should I traee again the weary track?
Angels are waiting—see their waving wings,
With thrilling melody the chorus rings;
I see them smile, and beckon me away,
Farewell, farewell, my spirit may not stay;
They wait to bear me to a heavenly home—
Jesus, my glorious Lord ! I come, I come."
Weep not, fond mother, God hath culled thy

flower, To bloom with beauty in a heavenly bower; Cease, mourning friends, and follow in the

road, That led that happy spirit to her God. IN TRIAL.

"Out of the depths have I cried to thee, 0 Lord."— Psalm cxsx. 1.

Jesus beneath Thy cross I lie,

Plunged in affliction's stormy deep;

Out of the depths to Thee I cry,
My tears a thorny pillow steep.

Yet, Lord, a look from Thee shall give relief,

And calm the raging billows of my grief.

Thy smile is more than heaven to me,—
And oh! thy frown is worse than hell,

My stricken heart would cling to Thee,
And in Thine ear its sorrows tell.

Thy love's a cordial sweet, a healing balm,

To cure my wounds, my mourning soul to calm.

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