Not less my thankfulness for love,
And sympathy's sweet voice,
Than all their thunder-tones of praise,
When all the ranks rejoice.

Then, sickness, come! and darting pain,
That through my frame do fly —
For final ease, I welcome ye :

To live, I gladly die.

With Him who leads the glorious fray,
Whose favor gives renown,
The lowliest bearer of the cross,

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
These glowing thoughts that stream and shine,
Each like a sudden sparkling star

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,
Humility, and holy care

For souls; submission to the rod,
Denials, watchfulness and prayer:
These, though confessed thy wisdom, wit,
And eloquence of purest powers,
Are thy remains, where thou dost sit
At Jesus' feet-may such be ours!

THOMAS GREENE FESSENDEN.

MOUNT Auburn, as a miser, gathers wealth
From the world's heap; not artfully, by stealth,
But shamelessly and open. Sits he now
Alone, in winter's drapery, his brow

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
Nought but the casket, which, at trump of doom,
Thou, saith the oracle of God-shalt render.
The jewel lodged above! — who'll tell its splendor?

THE HARVEST IS GREAT-THE LABORERS FEW.

VINEYARD of the Lord! thy treasures
Plenteous are to wondering sight:
How the laden stalks are bending
With the grain, to harvest white!
Wide the field-the world can only
Bound its precincts. Vast the prize;
To express its value, ages

Heaped on ages can't suffice.

Who will enter? - Laborers, toiling
In the wasting heat of day,
Are but few; and of these, hourly,
Perish some along the way.

Who will enter?- Great the burden,
Hard and constant is the toil;
But ye serve a gracious Master,
And he'll give you princely spoil.

Wake, oh, north wind! on this garden,
Fainting, dying, strongly blow;

Come, thou south! and, gently breathing,
Bid its spices freely flow.

Then, his power confessed, the Spirit

Hearts shall touch, and sweetly win ;

Vineyard! now, to reap thy harvest,
Joyful thousands enter in.