Night is the time to muse:

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,

Descries athwart the abyss of night,

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray :

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do:

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death!

When all around is peace;
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease:

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends,-such death be mine.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

DEATH'S SEASONS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee !-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,
And stars to set--but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

MRS. HEMANS.

PRAYER AT EARLY MORN.

WHEN first thine eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God as flowers do to the sun;
Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day; and in him sleep.

Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush
And whisperings among them: not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush

And oak doth know I AM :-canst thou not sing?
O leave thy cares and follies! go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.

Serve God before the world; let him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto him, and remember who
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine:
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven.

When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep well thy temper-mix not with each day; Despatch necessities; life hath a load

Which must be carried on, and safely may : Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

TO ONE BROKEN IN HEART.
BROKEN-HEARTED, weep no more!

Hear what comfort He hath spoken;
Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched,
Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken.

"Ye who wander here below,

Heavy laden as you go,

Come, with grief, with sin oppress'd,
Come to me, and be at rest."

Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock,
Brought again from sin, and straying;
Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice,
'Tis a true and faithful saying,-
"Greater love how can there be,
Than to yield up life for thee?
Brought with pang, and tear, and sigh,
Turn and live! why will ye die?"

Broken-hearted, weep no more!
Far from consolation flying:
He who calls hath felt thy wound,
Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing ;-
"Bring thy broken heart to me,
Welcome offering it shall be;
Streaming tears and bursting sighs,
Mine accepted sacrifice."

BISHOP DOANE.