Not less my thankfulness for love, Then, sickness, come! and darting pain, To live, I gladly die. With Him who leads the glorious fray, If true, shall share the crown. EVERYS. EVERY sorrow here, Which from evil seems to rise, If it start contrition's tear, Is a blessing in disguise. Every friend that grieves, By frail insincerity, Teacheth of a Friend that leaves Never, but still helpeth me. Every vexing stealth Fortune maketh of my goods, Only bids me store my wealth Where no cunning thief intrudes. Every babe to dust Given, with reluctant pain, Is but my Redeemer's trust, Which he will restore again. Every pang that gnaws Fiercely, this poor frame of mine, If but sanctified, me draws Nearer to the bliss divine. Every little sand Loosened by this stormy strife, Minds me of a better land, And of an unreckoned life. Every living thing Or of teeming earth or flood,Creeping, walking, on the wingIs a teacher of my God. Every star that burns On night's diadem, If it thought to Jesus turns, Is a star of Bethlehem. SELECT REMAINS OF THE REV. WILLIAM NEVINS, D. D. ON READING THE ABOVE. Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy soul! and can it be That these Are all that must remain of thee? Wordsworth. No! there are gems transcending far Of radiance on this page of thine : Gems which I scan with fond delight, More precious deemed at each survey — Beautiful in affliction's night, Undimmed in pleasure's prosperous day. What are they?— Worth, which well I knew, — Thy single, comprehensive heart, Open to the discerning few, In whose warm pulse mankind had part; Thy gentle spirit, foe to strife, That graced thy manhood, as thy youth; Thy suavity in private life, Thy public boldness for the truth; Thy piety and zeal for God, For souls; submission to the rod, THOMAS GREENE FESSENDEN. MOUNT Auburn, as a miser, gathers wealth Circled by solemn trees; and contemplates His gains, and those to come with which the Fates Shall swell his hoard, already rich in store, We knew not how to part with. Yet one more Is added. Moral excellence and wit, Talents, not idly hid, worth that would sit Gracefully on a king, the crown adorning, These have been stolen, this violence hath our mourning. Yet, Plunderer! there's hidden in thy womb THE HARVEST IS GREAT-THE LABORERS FEW. VINEYARD of the Lord! thy treasures Heaped on ages can't suffice. Who will enter? - Laborers, toiling Who will enter?- Great the burden, Wake, oh, north wind! on this garden, Come, thou south! and, gently breathing, Then, his power confessed, the Spirit Hearts shall touch, and sweetly win ; Vineyard! now, to reap thy harvest, |