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In peril from thy friends,
In peril from thy foes,
In peril from the rebel heart

That in thy bosom glows;

Hast thou no Father's house,

Beyond this pilgrim scene,
That thou on Earth's delusive props
With bleeding breast doth lean?

Yet not a mother's care

Who for her infant sighs,
When absence shuts it from her arms
Or sickness dims its eye,

Transcends the love divine,

The welcome full and free, With which the glorious King of Heaven, Will stretch his arms to thee,

When thou with contrite tear

Shalt wait within his walls, Imploring but the broken bread That from his table falls.

No more his mansion shun,
No more distrust his grace,
Turn from the orphanage of earth
And find a Sire's embrace.

Mrs Sigourney.



My father's house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! yet around, Something amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never marked before!

Is it the brooding night,

Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnized it seems,


And still, and darken'd in each time-worn hue, Since the rich clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last

I stood and linger'd-where my sisters made Our mother's bower - I deemed not that it cast So far and dark a shade!

How spirit-like a tone

Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was


At evening hours, while soft winds waved his

hair! Now those

gray locks are gone!


faint with fear:

My soul
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.

I tremble where I move

the voice of God

Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night

That makes my home so awful? hearted!

"T is that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn gladd'ning light!

No outward thing is changed;


Only the joy of purity is fled,

And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their notes with dread.

Therefore, the calm abode,

By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade: And, therefore, in the leaves the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid!

The night-flowers round that door, Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?

Hark, hark! —it is my mother's voice I hear
Sadder than once it seem'd-yet soft and clear
Doth she not seem to pray?

My name!

I caught the sound!

the deep, the mild

Oh! blessed tone of love
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,

Take back the lost and found!

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Mrs Hemans.



"Then Martha, as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming, went and met him; but Mary sat still in the house."

- John xi. 20.

ONE grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!

Was in your bosoms- thou, whose steps, made fleet

By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet; And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat Didst wait his summons-then with reverent love Fall weeping at the blest Deliverer's feet, Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could


And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?

Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign?
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.

Mrs Hemans.

II. "Then said the Jews, 'Behold, how he loved him!" John xi. 36.

"SEE how he loved!" exclaimed the Jews,
As tender tears from Jesus fell;
My grateful heart the thought pursues,
And on the theme delights to dwell.

See how he loved, who travelled on
Teaching the doctrine from the skies;
Who bade disease and pain be gone,
And called the sleeping dead to rise.

See how he loved, who, firm, yet mild,
Patient endured the scoffing tongue;
Though oft provoked, he ne 'er reviled,
Nor did his greatest foe a wrong.

See how he loved, who never shrank
From toil or danger, pain or death;
Who all the cup of sorrow drank,
And meekly yielded up his breath.

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