The Marriage Portion.

And they the beauty shall behold
Of Lebanon restored,

And with loud joy and singing praise
The glory of the Lord!

And the lame man shall leap as the hart,
The eyes of the blind be made clear,
And the dumb in the song shall take part,
The ears of the deaf made to hear;
And o'er the parch'd and thirsty earth
The living well shall pour,

And all things have a brighter birth
Henceforth and evermore ;

And the ransom'd of the Lord
He to Zion shall restore,
In joy to praise His holy word
With gladness evermore!

The Marriage Portion.

Num. vi. 24-26.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by M. T. Paradis.

LORD and Father of creation!

From Thy heavenly throne above, Make Thy face to shine upon them,

Deign to bless their plighted love;
Through the world to bless and keep them,
Though the evil way be wide,

Give them strength as on they journey,
With Thy light their footsteps guide.

To the bride, beyond her beauty,
Give her still Thy grace to know;
To the bridegroom, for her portion,
On her heavenly gifts bestow.

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So their bridal gifts shall never
Fade, as earthly things decay,
But the bride and bridegroom ever
Walk together in Thy way.

Like Morning, when her Early Breeze.

L

T. MOORE.-Air, Beethoven.

IKE morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light-

Thy grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before,
And freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre,
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even angels stoop'd to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord-
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music worthy of the skies!

I

Magdalen's Hymn during the Plague.

The Dying Christian.

Phil. i. 23.

J. E. CARPENTER.—Air, German.

HAVE a desire to depart, obeying

The heavenly call that bids me fly to rest;
Tired and weary, through the darkness straying,
Fain would I be with angels ever bless'd;
Worn is my pilgrim's staff,-my days expended;
The home I lived for distant cannot be ;
Why should I cling to earth? its ties are ended;
It is the grave that sets the Christian free.

What is the earth to me, with all its errors?

Long have I struggled with its empty show;
But to the sinful heart the grave has terrors,
Not to the righteous ones, prepared to go;
Farewell, ye friends whose tears so fast are falling,
Weep not that I so soon must take my flight;
Oh, may ye hear, like me, the angels calling,
And long to join them in the realms of light.

Magdalen's Hymn during the Plague.
JOHN WILSON.

THE

'HE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,

And says, "Prepare to die."

The face that in the morning sun

We thought so wondrous fair, Hath faded, ere his course was run, Beneath its golden hair.

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I see the old man in his grave
With thin locks silvery-gray;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of day.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music, all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest

Their monumental stone.

But not when the death prayer is said
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,

From whose dear side they came !

We veil our eyes before the light,
We bless our Saviour's name.

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death

A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years

In the glory yet to come;
Oh, idle grief! oh, foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.

Blessed are the Dead.

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest,
We part with life—awake! and there
The jewel in our breast.

Blessed are the Dead.

Rev. xiv. 13.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by Türk.

TREW his early grave with flowers,

STE

They the fragile emblems are ;
He has gain'd those blissful bowers
In the cloudless realms afar;
There the blooms that never wither
Shall their incense round him shed,

Grieve not-Heaven has called him thither;
Weep not-Blessed are the dead!

Father-think he is but sleeping,

Though 'tis darkness there to thee; Mother-stand not idly weeping,

He'll his Heavenly Father see;

Though your hearts with grief are breaking,
Joys celestial round him spread,

Death is but to Life awaking:

Weep not-Blessed are the dead.

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