were more than human! With the defence of his backslidings, which he hath himself more keenly scrutinized, more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than any of his censors, we do not charge ourselves; but if, when of these acts he became convinced, he be found less true to God, and to righteousness; indisposed to repentance and sorrow and anguish; exculpatory of himself; stout-hearted in his courses; a formalist in his penitence, or in any way less worthy of a spiritual man in those than in the rest of his infinite moods, then, verily, strike him from the canon, and let his Psalms become monkish legends, or what you please. But if these penitential Psalms discover the soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, whereon the very heart dissolveth; and if they, expressing the same in words, shall melt the soul that conceiveth and bow the head that uttereth them,-then, we say, let us keep these records of the Psalmist's grief and despondency as the most precious of his utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of every man who essayeth to live a spiritual life. Sometimes dhere comes a leetle schquall, Righd in its leetle schtomach schmall,— *Dot vas me himself. Dot makes him sing at night so schveet, Und I must chumb shbry on my feet, He bulls my nose and kicks my hair, Around my head dot leetle arm THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE. "And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready be fore it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building."--1 Kings, vi. 7. And whence, then, came these goodly stones 'twas Israel's pride to raise, The glory of the former house, the joy of ancient days; From coasts the stately cedar crowns, each noble slab was brought, In Lebanon's deep quarries hewn, and on its mountains wrought; There rung the hammer's heavy stroke among the echoing rocks, There chased the chisel's keen, sharp edge, the rude, unshapen blocks. Thence polished, perfected, complete, each fitted to its place For lofty coping, massive wall, or deep imbedded base, between The shores of Tyre's imperial pride and Judah's hills of green. With gradual toil the work went on, through days and months and years, Beneath the summer's laughing sun, and winter's frozen tears; it rose, And thus in majesty sublime and noiseless pomp Brethren in Christ! to holier things the simple type apply; Their Lebanon-the place of toil-of previous moulding— this. From nature's quarries, deep and dark, with gracious aim he hews The stones, the spiritual stones, it pleaseth him to choose: Hard, rugged, shapeless at the first, yet destined each to shine, Moulded beneath his patient hand, in purity divine. Oh, glorious process! meek; see the proud grow lowly, gentle, See floods of unaccustomed tears gush down the hardened cheek: Perchance the hammer's heavy stroke o'erthrew some idol fond; Perchance the chisel rent in twain some precious, tender bond. Behold, he prays whose lips were sealed in silent scorn be fore, Sighs for the closet's holy calm, and hails the welcome door: Behold, he works for Jesus now, whose days went idly past; Oh for more mouldings of the hand that works a change so vast! Ye looked on one, a well-wrought stone, a saint of God matured, What chiselings that heart had felt, what chastening strokes endured! But marked ye not that last soft touch, what perfect grace it gave, Ere Jesus bore his servant home across the darksome wave? Home to the place his grace designed that chosen soul to fill, In the bright temple of the saved, "upon his holy hill;" Home to the noiselessness, the peace, of those sweet shrines above, Whose stones shall never be displaced — set in redeeming love. Lord! chisel, chasten, polish us, each blemish work away, Cleanse us with purifying blood, in spotless robes array; And thus, thine image on us stamped, transport us to the shore, Where not a stroke is ever felt, for none is needed more. THE SEXTON.-PARK BENJAMIN. Nigh to a grave that was newly made, A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in; for man and boy, But come they stranger, or come they kin, "Many are with me, yet I'm alone; I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"" A DIRGE.-GEORGE CROLY. "Earth to earth, and dust to dust!" Here the sword and sceptre rust 66 'Earth to earth, and dust to dust!" Age on age shall roll along O'er this pale and mighty throng; |