But the HEALER was there who had smitten her heart, And taken her treasure away;

To allure her to Heaven, He had placed it on high, And the mourner will sweetly obey.

There had whispered a voice-'twas the voice of her GOD

I love thee, I love thee, "Pass under the Rod."

I saw when a father and mother had leaned

On the arms of a dear cherished son;

And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won.
And the fast coming evening of life promised fair,

And the pathway grew smooth to their feet,
And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

But I saw when they stood, bending low o'er the grave, Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid, And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, And joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the HEALER was there, and His arms were around, And He led them with tenderest care;

And He showed them a star in the bright upper world; 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there.

They had each heard a voice--'twas the voice of their GOD

I love thee, I love thee, "Pass under the Rod."

THE BIBLE.

Lines written by PETER HEYLYN, D.D., in the blank leaf of a richlybound bible, which he presented to his betrothed bride, a.d. 1630.

COULD this outside beholden be
To cost and cunning equally;
Or were it such as might suffice
The luxury of curious eyes;
Still would I have my dearest look,
Not on the cover, but the book.

If thou art merry, here are airs;
If melancholy, here are prayers;
If studious, here are those things writ
Which may employ the ablest wit;
If hungry, here is food and wine;
If thirsty, purest, heavenly wine.

But then, do first thyself prepare,
To mark, digest, and learn with care;
And as thou readest what is writ,
Let thy best practice second it:
So twice each precept read shall be;
First in the book, and next in thee.

Much reading may thy spirits wrong;
Refresh them, therefore, with a song;
And that thy music praise may merit,
Sing David's Psalms with David's spirit:
Then as thy voice doth pierce men's ears,
So shall thy prayers and vows the spheres.

Thus read, thus sing, and then to thee
The earth a very heaven shall be.
If thus thou readest, thou shalt find
A private heaven within thy mind;
And singing thus, before thou die,
Thou'rt mingled with the choirs on high.

THE HARP.

O SING to the harp with a Psalm of thanksgiving, And long may its chords full of harmony ring; On mountains and glen, both in England and Erin, To its wild notes of music and melody sing.

The bards sang of freedom, and told the glad story,
How their chieftains victorious and valiant had been:
But we can relate how the SAVIOUR with glory
Will crown us triumphant His praises to sing.

'Twas the first note of music that rang through creation, When gladness and mirth taught man's spirit to

soar:

'Tis the last thrilling sound of eternal duration,

And shall roll through the heavens when earth is

no more.

E

Then sing to the harp with a Psalm of thanksgiving, For mercy and pardon still offered to man;

Till the seraphim's harp, the sweet music of heaven, Shall swell the full chorus of praise to the LAMB.

SOLITUDE.

Ir is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow:
It is not grief that bids me moan:
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or on the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallowed airs and sympathies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed:
I would not be a leaf to die,
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale:

I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams, a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too :
I start, and when the vision's flown,

I

weep that I am all alone.

KIRKE WHITE.

REPLY TO THE ABOVE.

CHILD of the dust, I heard thee mourn,
Will God forsake, and not return?
Unhealed my wounds, my woes unknown,
Down to the grave I sink alone.

But art thou thus indeed alone,
Quite unbefriended and unknown?
And hast thou then His love forgot,
Who formed thy frame, and fixed thy lot?

Who laid his SON within the grave,
Thy soul from endless death to save;
And gave his SPIRIT to console,

And make thy wounded bosom whole?