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PETER WEEPING.

SAMUEL M. WARING.

OH! strong in purpose-frail in power, Where now the pledge so lately given? Coward-to creatures of an hour,

Bold-to the challenged bolts of heaven!

Shall that fierce eye e'er pour the stream
Of heart-wrung tears before its God?
Thus did the rock in Horeb seem,
One moment ere it felt the rod.

But Jesus turns-mysterious drops
Before that kindly glance flow fast:
So melt the snows from mountain-tops
When the dark wintry hour is past.

What might it be that glance could paint?
Did one deep-touching impress blend
The more than sage the more than saint-
The more than sympathising friend?

Was it that lightning thought retraced Some hallow'd hour beneath the moon, Or walk, or converse high that graced The Temple's column'd shade at noon?

Say, did that face to memory's eye
With gleams of Tabor's glory shine?
Or did the dews of agony

Still rest upon that brow Divine?

I know not: but I know a will

That, Lord! might frail as Peter's be! A heart that had denied Thee still,

E'en now-without a look from Thee!

THE OLD FLORIST.

66

FROM THOUGHTS OF THE BLIND."

MRS. T. K. HERVEY.

WHERE are ye, blessed flowers?
A cloud on every blossom lies,
Along the lawn the day-spring dies,
And heaven in anger lours.

Oh! never more to these dim eyes
The beauty of your bloom shall rise,
When, breathing soft as seraph sighs,
Ye close at even hours!

Sweet odours haunt me still; A rapture, hidden but intense, And springing from a two-fold sense, Through every pulse doth thrill : When lifts the broom its golden sheaves, I hear the rustling of the leaves,

Till, like the spray the fountain weaves, Strange tears mine eyelids fill.

Where shall we meet again,

O chasteners of the spirit's eye?

When tears are at their fountain dry,
And life hath no more pain ;

Where not as here ye drooping lie,
Nor breathing wake, yet wake to die-
Like hearts that break at memory's sigh

To find their homage vain.

Your beauty hath not fled!

Though light from these dull orbs hath flown, The sightless pilgrim not alone

His tears like dews shall shed.

He hears your light leaves' breezy tone,
Whose sweets around his path have grown,
And, while ye breathe, will never own

The soul of feeling dead.

There is a heavenward shore

Which troubled waters never lave;

There shall your beauty bloom and wave,
And, blooming, fade no more;

There, yearning love shall cease to crave,

And, in a world beyond the grave,

Shall turn from ye to Him who gave,

To worship and adore.

A FEW YEARS.

MISS E. M. HAMILTON.

OH! a few years! how the words come Like frost across the heart!

We need not weep, we need not smileFor a few years, a little while,

And it will all depart :

And we shall be with those who lie
Where there is neither smile nor sigh.

Yet, a few years,-is this the whole
Of chillness in the name?
That, glad or wretched, a few years
With their tumultuous hopes and fears,
And 'twill be all the same-

Our names, our generations gone,

Our day of life and life's dream done?

Ah! this were nothing: fewer still
Will do to bury all

That made life pleasant once, and threw

Over its stream the sunny hue

That it shall scarce recall;

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