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POETRY.

OUR MOTHER'S EPITAPH.

[The beautiful epitaph on which the subjoined lines are founded, is copied from an American paper. It reminds us of the simple and sublime memorials of some of the earlier Christians, from the Catacombs of Rome, so well described by Maitland, and familiar to most of our readers through the Rev. William Arthur's recent Lecture, at Exeter Hall.]

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"WHEN WILL MORNING COME?"

"OUR mother fell asleep"-but her repose
Was short-OUR FATHER smiled, and she arose.
So soon, so glorious, burst the Morning's light
On her rapt sense, as faith was merged in sight,
And, "purely purged" from aught of worldly leaven,
Her love went out on earth, to burn in Heaven!
"What of the Night ?" we ask with tearful eye;
"The Morning cometh,"* swells in faint reply.
"But when ?"-O Lord! how long!-we ask again
As the scarce-wakened stillness answers 'When?'
Whilst thou hast solved the mystery, and art free
In the pure day of Immortality.

"When will the morning come?" Within thy smile,
Mother! our day-spring centred for awhile,

And when thy sun had set, ours sank to rest
Till Faith endorsed the hope that thou wert blest,

Flooding with glory Death's retiring wave
That left a heaven, where it had whelmed a grave.

Yet, Mother, but a little while, and we

Shall sleep in Jesus, to awake with thee.

Morning will come, and this mistaking sight

Feel with new power the word-"Let there be LIGHT!"

*Isaiah, xxi 11, 12

Then shall we know as we are known, nor thread
The dim and devious ways our passions led,
But one in Christ, with undivided heart
Meet, with no fear, no will-no power to part!

AN INVITATION.

COME, with thine eye still bright

And open brow, by sorrow yet unshaded;
Thy spirit stirred by rapture's breathings light,
Nor bowed, as willow by the blast upbraided,
Or stricken hopes like flowers untimely faded;
Come! offer God thy love,

Now in thy springtide blooming;
So shalt thou look above,

When wintry storms are glooming; Nor ever fail to meet

Through cloud and darkness, gleaming

A kindly ray and sweet,

Full on thy sorrow beaming.

Come, with the full-swollen tide

Of life's fresh current through thy bosom rushing,
Come, while the sky above thy head is dyed
With all the rosiness of morning's blushing,
And far, and clear, joy's skylark-song is gushing.
Come, let thy sunrise glow

On free libations given

Forth from thy heart's glad flow-
Sparkling and pure to heaven.
So, by thy toilsome way

When noontide heats oppress thee,
Low murmuring winds shall play,
And springing waters bless thee.

But waste the strength of youth,

Lavish its freshness on thine own wild pleasureGive to the world its fervid love and truth;

And bitterly, in sorrow's lonely leisure,

Thou'lt rue the gift and mourn the wasted treasure,

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Split the clouds, which girt the head
Of the mountain, whence came dread
Words of wonder:

Hosts of Hebrews standing near,

Hide their faces pale with fear.

What was spoken

Ushered by such dread portent?

Lo, a code of wrath is sent;

This, if broken,

Death of spotless lamb, alone,

For the sinner might atone.

What subjection

To the mandates of their prince,

Did this favored race evince?

Small defection

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LYRA.

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