Evening.

GEORGE WITHERS.

EHOLD the sun, that seem'd but now

Enthroned overhead,

Beginning to decline below

The globe whereon we tread.
And he whom yet we look upon
With comfort and delight
Will quite depart from hence anon
And leave us to the night.

Thus time, unheeded, steals away
The life which nature gave;
Thus are our bodies every day
Declining to the grave :

Thus from us all our pleasures fly

Whereon we set our heart,

And then the night of death draws nigh: Thus will they all depart.

Lord! though the sun forsake our sight, And mortal hopes are vain,

Let still Thine everlasting light

Within our souls remain !

And in the nights of our distress

Vouchsafe those rays divine

Which from the Sun of Righteousness
For ever brightly shine.

Behold the Sun.

207

The Lark.

J. E. CARPENTER.-Music by Stephen Glover.

OARING and singing, bird of the day,

SOAR

What does thy full gush of melody say?
Is it a matin song singing of love,

Too pure to be heard save in regions above?
"Why do I carol my song to the skies ?”
Thus to my fancy the song-bird replies:
"Does not the earth in tranquillity rest,—
Man on his pillow, the bird on his nest?

Should we not sing, then, at morning's first rays,
A song of thanksgiving, a carol of praise ?”

Singing and soaring, bird of the day,
Why from this green earth away and away?
Ever returning, thy song never done,
Pluming thy bright wings on high in the sun.
"Why do I soar?" So the spirit of love
Seems to reply from the regions above:
"Is there not One who is ever on high,
Watching below from His throne in the sky?

And thus to the skylark perchance it is given,

To call back thy thoughts from the earth unto heaven!"

Behold the Sun.

T. MOORE.-Air, Lord Mornington.

EHOLD the Sun, how bright

BE

From yonder east He springs,

As if the soul of life and light
Were breathings from His wings!

So bright the gospel broke
Upon the souls of men ;

So fresh the dreaming world awoke

In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose

Stars cluster'd through the sky;

But oh, how dim, how pale were those
To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray

To bless the Pagan's night;

But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they To Thy one glorious light!

The Sabbath of the Year.

MISS CAROLINE MAY.

T is the sabbath of the year;

IT

And if ye 'll walk abroad,

A holy sermon ye shall hear,

Full worthy of record.

Autumn the preacher is; and look

As other preachers do,

He takes his text from the one Great Book, A text both sad and true.

With a deep, earnest voice he saith

A voice of gentle grief, Fitting the minister of Death

"Ye all fade as a leaf;

And your iniquities, like the wind,

Have taken you away;

Ye fading flatterers, weak and blind,
Repent, return, and pray."

The Sabbath of the Year.

And then the wind ariseth slow,

And giveth out a psalm;

And the organ pipes begin to blow
Within the forest calm.

Then all the trees lift up their hands,
And raise their voices higher,
And sing the notes of spirit bands
In full and glorious choir.

Yes, 'tis the Sabbath of the year!
And it doth surely seem,
(But words of reverence and fear
Should speak of such a theme,)
That corn is garner'd for the bread,
And berries for the wine,

And a sacramental feast is spread,
Like the Christian's pardon sign.

And the year, with signs of penitence,
The holy feast bends o'er ;

For she must die, and go out hence-
Die, and be seen no more.

Then are the choir and organ still,

The psalm melts in the air;
The wind bows down beside the hill,
And all are hush'd in prayer.

Then comes the sunset in the west,
Like a patriarch of old,

Or like a saint who hath won his rest,
His robes, and his crown of gold;
And forth his arms he stretcheth wide,
And with solemn tone and clear

He blesseth, in the eventide,

The Sabbath of the year.

209

Burial Anthem.

DEAN H. H. MILMAN.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,

And thy saintly soul is flown, Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown.

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and sin released,

Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou 'st travell❜d o'er,
And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach His blest abode ;
Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
Upon his Father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

.Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail;

And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn Priest hath said;

So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed: