Fear nought but sin; love all but sin; and learn
How that in all things else thou may'st discern
His forming, his creating power-how bind
Earth, self and brother to th' Eternal Mind.
Linked with th' Immortal, immortality
Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee,
To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day,
And that but changing life, miscalled decay?
Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart
To pour a stream of life ?-to make a part
With thy eternal spirit things that rot,-
That, looked on for a moment, are forgot,
But to thy opening vision pass to take
New forms of life, and in new beauties wake?
To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear
Its hues and odors to some fresher air;
Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere,
That softly answers to thy listening ear.
In one eternal round they go and come;
And where they travel, there hast thou a home
For thy far-reaching thoughts.-O Power Divine,
Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine?
Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go!
Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and wo!
Nay, rather let me use the world aright:
Thus make me ready for my upward flight.
The Crucifixion.-GEORGE CROLY.
CITY of God! Jerusalem,
Why rushes out thy living stream?
The turbaned priest, the hoary seer,
The Roman in his pride, are there ;
And thousands, tens of thousands, still
Cluster round Calvary's wild hill.
Still onward rolls the living tide,
There rush the bridegroom and the bride;
Prince, beggar, soldier, Pharisee,
The old, the young, the bond, the free ;
The nation's furious multitude,
All maddening with the cry of blood.
'Tis glorious morn ;-from height to height Shoot the keen arrows of the light;
And, glorious in their central shower,
Palace of holiness and power,
The temple on Moriah's brow
Looks like a new-risen sun below,
But wo to hill, and wo to vale!
Against them shall come forth a wail;
And wo to bridegroom and to bride!
For death shall on the whirlwind ride;
And wo to thee, resplendent shrine!
The sword is out for thee and thine.
Hide, hide thee in the heavens, thou sun,
Before the deed of blood is done!
Upon that temple's haughty steep
Jerusalem's last angels weep;
They see destruction's funeral pall
Blackening o'er Zion's sacred wall.
Like tempests gathering on the shore,
They hear the coming armies' roar;
They see in Zion's hall of state
The sign that maketh desolate-
The idol, standard, pagan spear,
The tomb, the flame, the massacre.
Still pours along the multitude,
Still rends the heavens the shout of blood ;
But on the murderers' furious van
Who totters on? A weary man;
A cross upon his shoulders bound-
His brow, his frame, one gushing wound.
And now he treads on Calvary.
What slave upon that hill must die?
What hand, what heart, in guilt imbrued,
Must be the mountain vulture's food?
There stand two victims, gaunt and bare,
Two culprit emblems of despair.
Yet who the third? The yell of shame
Is frenzied at the sufferer's name;
Hands clenched, teeth gnashing, vestures torn,
The curse, the taunt, the laugh of scorn,
All that the dying hour can sting,
Are round thee now, thou thorn-crowned King !
Yet, cursed and tortured, taunted, spurned,
No wrath is for the wrath returned,
No vengeance flashes from the eye;
The sufferer calmly waits to die;
The sceptre reed, the thorny crown,
Wake on that pallid brow no frown.
This was the earth's consummate hour;
For this had blazed the prophet's power;
For this had swept the conqueror's sword,
Had ravaged, raised, cast down, restored;
Persepolis, Rome, Babylon,
For this ye sank, for this ye shone.
Yet things to which earth's brightest beam
Were darkness-earth itself a dream-
Foreheads on which shall crowns be laid,
Sublime, when sun and star shall fade—
Worlds upon worlds-eternal things-
Hung on thy anguish, King of kings!
He dies, in whose high victory
The slayer, Death himself, shall die;
He dies, by whose all-conquering tread
Shall yet be crushed the serpent's head—
From his proud throne to darkness hurled,
The god and tempter of this world.
He dies, creation's awful Lord,
Jehovah, Christ, Eternal Word;
To come in thunder from the skies;
To bid the buried world arise;
The earth his footstool, heaven his throne.
Redeemer! may thy will be done.
The Daisy in India.-JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Supposed to be addressed, by the Rev. Dr. Carey, one of the Baptist missionaries at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprung up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from England. With great care and nursing, the doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to
THRICE Welcome, little English flower!
My mother country's white and red;
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread.
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribe, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapors lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabashed but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze, till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower,
In gorgeous liveries, all the year
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be.
The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age and manhood's prime, Home, country, kindred, friends-with thee I find, in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand.
O for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May-dews of that fair land,
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