THE STILL, SMALL VOICE. M'Comb. HE cometh, He cometh, the Lord passeth by ; The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh; The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast; But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast. He cometh, He cometh, the Lord, He is near, He cometh, He cometh, the Lord is in ire ; O say, He cometh, He cometh, the tempest is o'er ; Are still as the voice that descends from on high. How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace, When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease, When the welcome of Mercy falls soft on the ear, "Come hither, ye laden-ye weary, draw near!" There's a rest for the soul that on Jesus relies ; There's a home for the homeless, prepared in the skies; There's a joy in believing, a hope, and a stay, That the world cannot give, nor the world take away. O had I the wings of a dove, I would fly, Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven. ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEM ON SOLITUDE. Josiah Conder. BUT art thou thus indeed " alone," Quite unbefriended, and unknown? And hast thou then his name forgot Is not his voice in evening's gale? Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear, TO MY MOTHER. Kirke White. AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment, think, Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. Banish the thought! where'er our steps may roam, AUTUMN. Montgomery. SWEET Sabbath of the year! While evening lights decay, Amid thy silent bowers, 'Tis sad, but sweet, to dwell: Where falling leaves and drooping flowers Around me breathe farewell. Along thy sunset skies, Their glories melt in shade; And like the things we fondly prize, Seem lovelier as they fade. A deep and crimson streak Thy dying leaves disclose; As, on Consumption's waning cheek, 'Mid ruin blooms the rose. Thy scene each vision brings Of fair and early faded things, Of joys that come no more; Of flowers whose bloom is fled; Of all that now may seem, ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE. Rev. J. Plumptre. SUCH talents and such piety combined, |