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At once his own bright prospect to be blest,
Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine,
God loves from whole to parts, but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, His country next, and next all human race; Wide and more wide th' o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in, of every kind; Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And Heaven beholds its image in his breast.
(JOHN MASON GOOD.)
Truly this was the Son of God.-Matt. xxvii. 54.
Yes, this was the Son of God. -
• 'Tis finish'a.'-Through creation's bound
'Tis finish'd!' Earth re-echoing rings. • 'Tis finish'd !'-Through the realms of woe The hated accents sternly flow : "Tis finish'd !' man the traitor lives; The ransom's paid, and God forgives. • 'Tis finish'd !'-Yes, the toil is o'er : The wond'rous toil the Saviour bore. From Death's dread jaws the sting he draws, And on the cross achieves his cause.
Sing the cross :-0 badge of shame!
« 'Tis finish'd!'-All the vision high
Then I'll sing the cross! the cross !
TO A SWEET BRIAR IN INDIA.
[REV. JOHN LAWSON, LATE MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA.]
O STRANGER, welcome as a long lost dream
Far from my home, and thine,
We meet, but O how chang’d !
Than when at home thy boughs
Hung o'er my weary head.
That urgeth the quick growth
Of thy transparent leaves.
And seem to live again
I see thy shadow at the cottage door
Like yellow guineas thrown
And there re-blooms the jessamine that help'd
Weaving o'er head her flowers
Like snow-stars, with thine own. Nor was the honeysuckle absent then, But twisted her streak’d blossoms with thy leaves,
Asking support from thee,
Repaying with her grace. The low thatch met thy topmost branches, where The deep green moss, and golden stone crop grew,
And house-leek, never sere,
Smiled in her sunny bed.
Full on the rushing wind,
Like melody from heaven.
The peony was there,
Beside the balmy thyme.
Of lilacs waving high
Their plumes upon the breeze;
Of heart-reviving mint,
And the wild origan;
The tiny sleeping buds
One, more than all that bloomed in that retreat,
Upon my sorrowing beart.
For her cold hand, all motionless in death,
The dark cloud gathered round
Her lovely faded eyes.
I turned, nor saw again
My Sister's beauteous form.
That nameless flower was there;
And thou, sweet-briar, too,
Once more, but ah, how chang'd,
Far from my home, and thine ! Since last we met, long years have slowly rolled; Have brought--have left their troubles, but there is
A balm for human woe;
And more than human love
And bid sweet-briars grow
Where thorns beset my path. The Power that bids thee spring in foreign earth, And gives thee strength to shed thy fragrance here, Still clothing thee with
green, Appoints to man his lot.