Had they who watched and waited there Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved with fervency of soul, His power divine to make them whole! But habit and tradition swayed Their minds to trust to sense alone; They only hoped the angel's aid; While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, Bethesda's pool has lost its power! No angel, by his glad descent, Dispenses that diviner dower. Which with its healing waters went, But He, whose word surpassed its wave, Is still Omnipotent to save. And what that fountain once was found, Religion's outward forms remain With living virtue only crowned While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure! Yet are there who this truth confess, Who know how little forms avail, But whose protracted helplessness Confirms the impotent's sad tale; Who, day by day, and year by year, As emblems of his lot appear. They hear the sounds of life and love, They see the troubled waters move, Whose touch alone might health supply; But weak of faith, infirm of will, As when that healing word was spoke; Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke. TIME'S TAKINGS AND LEAVINGS. WHAT does age take away? Bloom from the cheek, and lustre from the eye; Unclouded as the summer's bluest sky. What do years steal away? The fond heart's idol, Love, that gladdened life; We trusted to in hours of darker strife. What must with Time decay? Young Hope's wild dreams, and Fancy's visions bright; Life's evening sky grows gray, And darker clouds prelude Death's coming night. But not for such we mourn! We know them frail, and brief their date assigned; Less from Time's thefts, than what he leaves behind. What do years leave behind? Unruly passions, impotent desires, Distrusts and thoughts unkind, Love of the world, and self-which last expires. For these, for these we grieve; What Time has robbed us of we know must go: Not only finds us poor, but keeps us so. It ought not thus to be; Nor would it, knew we meek Religion's sway; Her votary's eye could see How little Time can give, or take away. Faith, in the heart enshrined, Would make Time's gifts enjoyed and used, while lent; And all it left behind, Of Love and Grace, a noble monument. POWER AND BENEVOLENCE. GOD is not great because omnipotent! But because power in Him is understood And felt, and proved to be benevolent, And wise, and holy;-thus it ever should! And has in view the happiness of all: Hence love and adoration :-never could The contrite spirit at his footstool fall, If power, and power alone, its feelings did appal! If then divinest power be truly so, Because its proper object is to bless ; And glory of the Highest ;-nothing less HENRY KIRKE WHITE. THIS Christian poet was born at Nottingham, in 1785. He was apprenticed to a hosier, and afterwards articled to a lawyer. But neither of these callings was congenial to his feelings and talents; and, by the kindness of some friends, he was enabled to enter himself of St. John's College, Cambridge, to study for the Church. Here he obtained several prizes at the public examinations, but they were dearly purchased; incessant study brought him to the grave, in 1807, in the twenty-second year of his age. The writings of Kirke White show that he possessed in an eminent degree the poetical faculties, and his religious and social character endeared him to all his acquaintances. His works, with the interesting memoir of his life and genius by Dr. Southey, have passed through many editions in this country. THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS. THROUGH Sorrow's night, and danger's path, We, soldiers of an injured King, Are marching to the tomb. There, when the turmoil is no more, Shall sleep the years away. Our labors done, securely laid The storms of life shall beat. Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane, The vital spark shall lie; For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise, To see its kindred sky. These ashes too, this little dust, Our Father's care shall keep, Then love's soft dew o'er every eye And the long silent dust shall burst HYMN. AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake, When God's right arm is bared for war, 'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly, Thus, while we dwell in this low scene, While yet we sojourn here below, Yet, courage-days and years will glide, |