STRIKE the sweet chord, lift up the cheerful voice,
A father bids you in his joy rejoice;
Let thankfulness in every heart abound,
For this my son was lost and now is found.
Bring forth the robe-unfold the brightest vest,
In rich attire array the welcome guest;
Let joyful words in sweet accord be sung,
And grateful praises flow from ev'ry tongue.
Let thankfulness in every heart abound,
For this my son was lost, and he is found!—
Thus meets the earthly parent, thus receives
The wandering son, to whom affection cleaves;
The welcome sight shall all his grief destroy,
Nor one reproach be mingled with his joy.
His open arms the prodigal embrace,
While smiles of mercy beam upon his face.
And does our gracious Heavenly Father less,
When the poor sinner hastens to confess :
When he his weakness and his wandering mourns,
And with the tears of penitence returns?
Listen!-what joyful hallelujahs rise!—
The melody of angels fills the skies.
Their golden harps they tune, they strike the chord,
Their song of praise, "the lost is now restored,”-
His be the robe unspotted light pervades;
His be the wreath which never, never fades;
His be the triumphs of the blest alone,
The crown of glory, and the Saviour's throne.
MRS. BOUSFIELD.
EPITAPH ON THE DAIRYMAN'S
DAUGHTER.
STRANGER, if e'er by chance or feeling led,
Upon this hallowed turf thy footsteps tread,
Turn from the contemplation of the sod,
And think on her whose spirit rests with God.
Lowly her lot on earth,-but He who bore
Tidings of grace and blessings to the poor,
Gave her his truth and faithfulness to prove
The choicest treasures of his boundless love:
Faith, that dispelled affliction's darkest gloom;
Hope, that could cheer the passage to the tomb;
Peace, that not hell's dark legions could destroy;
And love, that fill'd the soul with heavenly joy.
Death of his sting disarmed, she knew no fear,
But tasted heaven, e'en while she lingered here.
O happy saint! may we like thee be blest;
In life be faithful, and in death find rest!
MRS. BOUSFIELD.
EPITAPH ON A CHILD.
YE who have sorrowed o'er the bier
Of one as lovely and as dear,
Pause at the tomb in whose lone shade,
The form of infancy is laid.
O'er these loved ashes parents shed
Tears such as shew'd fond hope was fled;
Yet not as hopeless-for they knew
A Saviour died for children too :
And 'mid their grief's severest pain,
Faith whispered, "he shall rise again."
Till that blest hour behold him there,
Where's no temptation, pain, or care;
Made heir of glory, blest renown,
Without a combat for the crown,
Whilst with the saints he joins to cry,
"O Grave! where is thy victory."
CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION.
THERE is a calm the poor in spirit know,
That softens sorrow and that sweetens woe;
There is a peace that dwells within the breast
When all without is stormy and distrest;
There is a light that gilds the darkest hour,
When dangers threaten and when troubles lower,
That calm to faith and hope and love is given,
That peace remains when all beside is riven,
That light shines down to man direct from heaven.
FROM every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes,
There is a calm, a sure retreat,
'Tis found beneath the Mercy Seat.
There is a place where Jesus sheds
The oil of gladness on our heads,
A place than all besides more sweet-
It is the blood-bought Mercy Seat.
There is a scene where spirits blend,
Where friend holds fellowship with friend,
Tho' far apart, by faith, they meet
Around one common Mercy Seat.
Ah! whither could we flee for aid,
When tempted, desolate, dismay'd;
Or how the hosts of hell defeat,
Had suffering saints no Mercy Seat?
There! there on eagle wing we soar,
And sin and sense seem all no more;
And Heaven comes down our souls to greet,
And Glory crowns the Mercy Seat.
hand forget her skill,
My tongue be silent, cold and still,
This bounding heart forget to beat,
If I forget the Mercy Seat.
TRUST IN GOD.
Hab. iii. 17, 18.
THOUGH the fig tree should not blossom,
Nor the vine her clusters yield;
Nor the golden harvest waving,
Crown with sheaves the fruitful field;
Nor the flocks at eve returning,
Whiten o'er the peaceful plain;
Nor the shepherd's lute resounding,
Call them from the fold again;
Yet in Thee, O God, confiding,
Every anxious care is still:
Perfect love its law fulfilling,
Bows obedient to thy will.
MAY you always, my brother, enjoy
Every blessing you ought to desire;
And to joys that as yet are unknown,
May your wishes for ever aspire !
You've been taught in your own feeble strength,
You must not one moment confide;
Oh look to your Saviour alone,
Assured he is willing to guide.
He is willing to bless you on earth;
He is able to lead you to heaven;
And remember a sister's best wish
Is-to Him that your life may
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