The Longest Day. O Paradise! O Paradise! We want to sin no more; We want to be as pure on earth All rapture through and through, L The Longest Day. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. ET us quit the leafy arbour, And the torrent murmuring by; For the sun is in his harbour, Evening now unbinds the fetters Fashion'd by the glowing light; All that breathe are thankful debtors To the harbinger of night. Yet by some grave thoughts attended Summer ebbs; each day that follows Tending to the darksome hollows Where the frosts of winter lie. 173 He who governs the creation, To the life of human kind. Yet we mark it not; fruits redden, Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, And the heart is loath to deaden Hopes that she so long hath known. Be thou wiser, youthful maiden ! Now, e'en now, ere wrapp'd in slumber, That absorbs time, space, and number- The Worth of Time. J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by E. Perry. A N old man and a little child Amid the blossoms of the wild The child oft paused to play; “Ah! trifle not amid the flowers,” The gray-hair'd teacher said, "For precious are the passing hours, And mourn'd as soon as fled." Holy Ground. The old man took the little child The child went on-the old man fled, The words that gray-hair'd teacher said And wisely are his children taught He tells them how he first was brought 175 N Holy Ground. J. E. CARPENTER. WOT alone by the old gray towers, Where the dim cathedral shadow lowers; Not alone where the line they trace Points to the "consecrated place; Not alone where the churchman kneels, Nor where the anthem's echoes sound,- Where heroes fallen in battle sleep, Where the sailor lies 'neath the surging deep, Where the emigrant, in the forest wild, Where the exiled Christian kneels to God, These spots are hallow'd, and-holy ground! Not alone where the willow waves O'er sculptured urns and trophied graves; Through the colour'd panes of the cloister'd aisle ; Sleep. MRS JANE T. WORTHINGTON. T visiteth the desolate, Who hath no friend beside, Upon the brow of care, And calleth to the faded lips The smile they used to wear. And lovely is the angel light Fallen is thy Throne. Such rest as cannot close the eyes, "He giveth His beloved sleep!" Fallen is the Throne. T. MOORE.—Air, Martini. ALLEN is thy throne, O Israel! FAI Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, That fire from heaven which led thee, Lord! Thou didst love Jerusalem— Her love Thy fairest heritage,* Till evil came and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree,+ And Salem's shrines were lighted * Jer. xii. 7. † Jer. xiv. 21. Jer. xi. 16. M 177 |