A CHERUB. "Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is."-JEREMY TAYLOR to EVELYN, 1656. BEAUTIFUL thing! with thine eye of light, To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy, With the look and the voice of our darling boy Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts He had twined about with his infant arts, To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, In the golden orb of his little star : Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace, Cheering us still on our lonely way, Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with Christ, we come to be, Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE. THIS placid lake, my gentle girl, As full of peace and purity As free from care and strife; And see, how every glorious form So be thy spirit ever pure, To God and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear THE CHRISTIAN'S Ꭰ Ꭼ Ꭺ Ꭲ Ꮋ . LIFT not thou the wailing voice, Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth,— Up, where blessed saints rejoice, Ransomed now, the spirit flieth; High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, Lift for her no voice of wailing! Pour not thou the bitter tear; Heaven its book of comfort opeth ; Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, But, as one who alway hopeth, Humbly here in faith relying, Peacefully in Jesus dying, Heavenly joy her eye is flushing,- Ours be, then, no thought of grieving! Sweetly with their God they rest, All their toils and troubles leaving: So be ours the faith that saveth, Hope that every trial braveth, Love that to the end endureth, And, through Christ, the crown secureth! JOHN KEBLE. MR. KEBLE was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual interests he devoted himself with untiring ardor and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are Newman, Hook, and Pusey, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts. Mr. Keble is known as a poet chiefly through "The Christian Year," which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valuable additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Doane, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Besides this, he has written "The Child's Christian Year;" some of the finest pieces in the "Lyra Apostolica," and a new translation of the Psalms of David. MORNING. HUES of the rich unfolding morn, Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, Why waste your treasures of delight Oh! timely happy, timely wise, Which evermore makes all things new. New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies each returning day, Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be, As more of heaven in each we see; Only, O Lord, in thy dear love, AUTUMN. RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun, Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And echo bids good-night from every glade: Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float, Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall, forgotten, to abide, Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold; The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, Unconscious, they in waste oblivion lie ;- Man's portion is to die and rise again, Yet he complains; while these, unmurmuring, part And haply half-unblamed, his murmuring voice A round of listless joy and weary strife. Though brightened oft by dear affection's kiss: Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. |