"Neither murmur ye."-I Cor. x. 10.
SURELY it is a murmuring tone
That strikes upon my ear,
Peace! peace! thou poor afflicted one,
The Lord is swift to hear.
Whate'er thy grief, whate'er thy lot,
'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.
Is it thy portion, here below,
In poverty to pine?
And as thy neighbour's riches grow,
Dost thou desire them thine ?
No earthly treasure hast thou got ?'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.
Or hast thou weakness, pain, or scorn,
So difficult to bear ?
Art thou forsaken and forlorn,
Weary and full of care?
Yet keep thee from the sinful blot,
'Tis God's appointment-murmur not.'
Remember that our Lord was poor,
Despised and sore opprest;
Think of his patience to endure-
Think of his troubled breast.
For thee he bore that bitter lot,
He loved thee-and He murmured not.
AFTER THE LORD'S SUPPER.
"The Lord is my shepherd,"-Psalm xxiii,
ISRAEL'S shepherd! guide me, feed me,
Through my pilgrimage below;
And beside the waters lead me,
Where thy flocks rejoicing go.
Could I wander, fear disdaining,
Could I quit the sheltering fold?
Heedless of thy grace constraining,
In the strength of nature bold?
No! thy pardoning presence ever,
Meekly kneeling I implore;
I have found thee, and would never-
Never wander from thee more!
O how sweet, how comfortable,
In the wilderness to see,
Such provision, such a table,
Spread for sinners; yes, for me?
There thy bounty still partaking,
Bread and consecrated wine;
Freely all things else forsaking,
I behold the Saviour mine:
In that bruised body, broken-
In the shedding of that blood;
What a gracious pledge, and token,
Lord! we have for every good.
Come, my soul! temptations flying,
Arm thee for the strife within;
Jesus, thy Redeemer, dying,
Stamps an infamy on sin:
Yield my heart! no longer harden'd;
Rouse thy every latent power;
Cleansed and wash'd, and freely pardon'd,
"Go in peace! and sin no more."
J. BICKERSTETH.
As o'er the past my memory strays,
Why heaves the secret sigh ?
'Tis that I mourn departed days,
Still unprepared to die.
The world, and worldly things, beloved,
My anxious thoughts employed;
While time unhallow'd, unimproved,
Presents a fearful void.
Yet holy Father, wild despair
Chase from this labouring breast:
Thy grace it is, which prompts the prayer;
That grace can do the rest.
My life's best remnant all be thine;
And when thy sure decree,
Bids me this fleeting breath resign,
O speed my soul to thee!
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night,
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream, is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd,
Among the noble slain,
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one- o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd,
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus, they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee.
AROUND a ruin, old and grey,
The sombre ivy clung,
And thickly on the dreary walls
In weeping garlands hung.
It robed in funeral hue the pile,
So proud in days of yore;
As if it mourned the strength and youth,
Gone to return no more.
A little lovely plant was seen
Amidst those ruins wild,
And from the tower whereon it grew
Its flower looked up and smiled,
To every breeze which murmured by,
Its fragrant scent was given;
Its root was on the mouldering stone,
Its blossom turned to heaven.
So like the ivy, memory fond
Around the past entwines,
And all its buried images
With mournful love enshrines.
For even when our path is bright,
How oft we think with tears,
Upon the faded happiness
Of long departed years!
And when our hearts cling mournfully, As human hearts will cling,
Around some memory of the past,
Some dear though transient thing:
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