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This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold;

For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

SIGHS AND GROANS.

O Do not use me

After my sins! look not on my desert,

But on Thy glory; then Thou wilt reform,

And not refuse me, for Thou only art
The mighty God, but I a silly worm;
O do not bruise me !

O do not urge me!

For what account can Thy ill steward make?
I have abused Thy stock, destroy'd Thy woods,
Sack'd all Thy magazines. My head did ache,
Till it found out how to consume Thy goods.
O do not scourge me!

O do not blind me!

I have deserved that an Egyptian night

Should thicken all my powers, because my lust Hath still sew'd fig-leaves to exclude Thy light; But I am frailty and already dust;

O do not grind me!

O do not fill me

With the turn'd vial of Thy bitter wrath;
For Thou hast other vessels full of blood,

A part whereof my Saviour emptied hath,
Even unto death; since He died for my good,
O do not kill me!

But O reprieve me!

For Thou hast life and death at Thy command; Thou art both Judge and Saviour, feast and rod, Cordial and corrosive. Put not Thy hand

Into the bitter box; but, O my God,

My God, relieve me!

X

ROBERT HERRICK.

ROBERT HERRICK was descended from an old family in Leicestershire. His father, Nicholas Herrick, was a goldsmith in Cheapside, London. He was born in London, in 1591, and was educated at Westminster School. He entered St. John's College, Cambridge, about 1615. Taking orders, he was preferred to the vicarage of Dean Prior, Devonshire. He was deprived of his living under the Protectorate, when he returned to London. At the Restoration, in 1660, he re-obtained his charge. He died in 1674. Herrick published his "Noble Numbers,” in 1647. His "Hesperides" appeared in the following year. An edition of his works, with a memoir, was published in London, in 1859.

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

IN the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,

And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When his potion and his pill
Is or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies, in a shoal,

Come to fright my parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the priest his last hath pray'd, And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decay'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When, God knows, I'm toss'd about,

Either with despair or doubt,

Yet before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tempter me pursueth
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the flames and hellish cries Fright my ears and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is reveal'd
And that open'd which was seal'd,

When to Thee I have appeal'd,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

MRS. HERVEY.

ELEANORA LOUISA MONTAGU was born in Liverpool, in 1811. She began at an early period to contribute to periodicals. In 1839, she published "The Landgrave; a dramatic poem." She married, in 1843, Thomas Kebble Hervey, editor of The Athenzum, who died in 1859. Mrs. Hervey is the writer of several interesting works, both in prose and verse.

THE DAUGHTER OF GILEAD.

(Contributed.)

"And she said unto her father, Let this thing be done for me: let me alone two months, that I may go up and down upon the mountains."-Fud, xi. 37.

THERE'S a wail upon the mountains; it resounds o'er Gilead's heights;

'Tis the cry of Jephthah's daughter, for her girlhood's lost delights. Ere the summer moon declineth, she, too, shall pass away, Untimely cropp'd in beauty, as a budding thorn of May.

"Alas! thy vow, my father! 'Twas a bitter vow for thee.
And what cared I for Ammon, while the earth was green to me?
Shall my days of youth be gather'd ere the fervid noon be past,
As the grass beneath the sickle, as the leaf before the blast!"

There, in silence, on the mighty hills, the stars are seen to glow, Where she bows her head o'er Gilead in the meekness of her woe. Across her breast her arms she folds; and, kneeling on the sod, With steadfast gaze, looks upward, as the mountains look, to God.

"O Thou that dwellest above the cloud, and ridest on the beam,
Lay Thy commandment on me, as the glory of a dream!
Could I hear the voice that Moses heard, whate'er my doom might be,
The ground whereon I tread should be as Horeb unto me !"

There are steps along the mountain-side, where beautiful and slow,
Descends the child of Jephthah, with a halo round her brow.
The voice hath call'd her heavenward; there is peace within her breast;
And not a shadow darkens more the mountain's glorious crest.

ROWLAND HILL.

ROWLAND HILL, the celebrated preacher and wit, was sixth son of Sir Rowland Hill, Bart. He was born on his father's estate of Hawkstone, Shropshire, on the 23rd August, 1744. He studied at Eton, afterwards at the University of Cambridge, where he graduated. Contrary to the wishes of his family, he entered the Church, receiving orders in 1774. He subsequently adhered to the Calvinistic Methodists. In 1782, Surrey Chapel, Blackfriars Road, London, was erected for his use. There he afterwards preached during six months each year, employ. ing the other half-year chiefly in itinerating. He died on the 11th April, 1833. He published in 1790 a thin 16mo, entitled "Divine Hymns, attempted in Easy Language, for the Use of Children." The following hymn is transcribed from his "Collection of Psalms and Hymns." London, 1830. 8th edition.

GLORY OF THE SAINTS.

EXALTED high at God's right hand,
Nearer the throne than cherubs stand,
With glory crown'd, in white array,
My wond'ring soul says, Who are they?

These are the saints beloved of God,
Wash'd are their robes in Jesu's blood;
More spotless than the purest white,
They shine in uncreated light.

Brighter than angels, lo! they shine,
Their glories great, and all Divine;
Tell me their origin, and say

Their order what, and whence came they.

Through tribulation great they came ;

They bore the cross, and scorn'd the shame;

Within the living temple blest,

In God they dwell, and on Him rest.

And does the cross thus prove their gain?
And shall they thus for ever reign,
Seated on sapphire thrones, to praise

The wonders of redeeming grace?

Hunger they ne'er shall feel again,
Nor burning thirst shall they sustain ;
To wells of living waters led,
By God, the Lamb, for ever fed.

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