And Hope, like the rainbow, unfold through the shower

Her bright-written promise of peace?

And oh! if that rainbow of promise may shine

On the last scene of life's wintry gloom, May its light in the moment of parting be mine; I ask but one ray from a source so divine, To brighten the vale of the tomb.

CONSOLATIONS.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

MOURNER! thou seekest Rest.

Rise from thy couch, and dry the tears unblest,
And sigh no more for blessings now resigned.
Go to the fount of life which ever flows;
There thou mayst gain oblivion of thy woes,
There shall thy spirit own a sweet repose.
Seek Rest, and thou shalt find.

Thou seekest Health; and how?

Let gloom and tears no more thy spirit bow;
Health springs aloft upon the viewless wind:
Up to the mountain-top pursue her flight;
Over the fresh turf track her footsteps light;
In hawthorn bowers, 'mid fountains gushing bright,
Seek her, and thou shalt find.

CONSOLATIONS.

247

But Hope hath left thee too,

'Mid many griefs, and comforts all too few. Think not her angel-presence is confined

To earth; but seek the helps which God hath given To aid thy feeble sight, and through the heaven See where she soars, bright as the star of even. Then seek, and thou shalt find.

Dost thou seek Peace, and where?

'Mong thine own withered hopes? She is not there.

Nor in the depths of thine own darkened mind.
Lay thy heart open to the infant's mirth,
Send the bright hopes of others from their birth,
Look round for all that 's beautiful on earth.
Seek Peace, and thou shalt find.

Seek Peace and Hope and Rest:

And as the eagle flutters o'er her nest,*

And bears her young, all trembling, weak, and

blind,

Up to heaven-gate on her triumphant wing, -
So shall the Lord thy God thy spirit bring
To whom eternal suns their radiance fling.
Him seek, and thou shalt find.

* Deuteronomy xxxii. 11.

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXII.

H. K. WHITE.

My God, my God, O why dost thou forsake me?
Why art thou distant in the hour of fear?
To thee, my wonted help, I still betake me,
To thee I clamor, but thou dost not hear.

The beam of morning witnesses my sighing,
The lonely night-hour views me weep in vain;
Yet thou art holy, and on thee relying,

Our fathers were released from grief and pain.

To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their wailing,

On thee they trusted, and their trust was sure; But I, poor, lost, and wretched son of failing, I, without hope, must scorn and hate endure.

Me they revile; with many ills molested,

They bid me seek of thee, O Lord, redress : On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested, Let God relieve him in his deep distress.

To me, Almighty, in thy mercy shining,

Life's dark and dangerous portals thou didst

ope;

"TO WHOM SHALL WE GO?"

249

And, softly on my mother's lap reclining, Breathed through my breast the lively soul of hope.

Even from the womb, thou art my God, my Father! Aid me, now trouble weighs me to the ground: Me heavy ills have worn, and, faint and feeble, The bulls of Bashan have beset me round.

My heart is melted, and my soul is weary; The wicked ones have pierced my hands and feet!

Lord, let thy influence cheer my bosom dreary: My help! my strength! let me thy presence greet!

Save me! O, save me! from the sword dividing, Give me my darling from the jaws of death! Thee will I praise, and, in thy name confiding, Proclaim thy mercies with my latest breath.

"TO WHOM SHALL WE GO?"

MRS. E. L. FOLLEN.

WHEN our purest delights are nipt in the blossom, When those we love best are laid low,

When grief plants in secret her thorns in the bosom, Deserted, "to whom shall we go?

When error bewilders, and our path becomes

dreary,

And tears of despondency flow;

When the whole head is sick, and the whole heart is weary,

Despairing, "to whom shall we go?"

When the sad, thirsty spirit turns from the springs

Of enchantment this life can bestow, And sighs for another, and flutters its wings, Impatient, "to whom shall we go?"

O blest be that light which has parted the clouds, A path to the pilgrim to show,

That pierces the veil which the future enshrouds, And shows us to whom we may go.

A PRAYER.

R. M. MILNES.

EVIL, every living hour,
Holds us in its wilful hand,
Save as thou, essential Power,
Mayst be gracious to withstand:
Pain within the subtle flesh,
Heavy lids that cannot close,