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THE REFUGEE.

"Whom have I in Heaven but thee?" Psalm 13-25.

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UT Thee, O God! but Thee,
To whom shall I address
My wail of deep distress?
Thou only who canst see
My spirit's brokenness,

Thou only, who alone canst heal
The pangs I bear, the ills I feel.

To Thee, Oh God! to Thee,
With lowly heart I bend;
Lord, to my prayer attend,

And haste to succour me,
Thou never failing Friend!
For seas of trouble o'er me roll,

And whelm with tears my sinking soul.

From Thee, O God! from Thee,

By phantom passions led,

Like him of old* I fled!

Saying this earth shall be,
To me a heaven instead.

But then didst Thou in mercy thrust
My earthly idols to the dust.

On Thee, Oh God! on Thee
With humble hope I'll lean,
Thou who hast ever been

A hiding place to me,
In many a troubled scene;

Whose heart with love and mercy fraught
Back to the fold Thy wand'rer brought.

* Jonah.

WILLIAM WILSON.

WHY SEEK YE THE LIVING AMONG THE DEAD.

H! why should bitter tears be shed
In sorrow o'er the mounded sod,
When verily there are no dead

Of all the children of our God?

They who are lost to outward sense
Have but flung off their robes of clay,
And clothed in heavenly radiance,
Attend us on our lowly way.

And oft their spirits breathe in ours
The hope and strength and love of theirs,
Which bloom as bloom the early flowers
In breath of summer's viewless airs.

And silent aspirations start,

In promptings of their purer thought,

Which gently lead the troubled heart To joys not even Hope had wrought.

While sorrow's tears our eyes have wet,
Shed o'er the consecrated dust,

Too much our darkened souls forget
The lessons of enduring Trust.

Let living Faith serenely pour

Her sunlight on our pathway dim, And Death can have no terrors more;

But holy joys shall walk with him.

G. S. BURLEIGH.

EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET.

T morning twilight, when the dreaming soul

Gropes in the grey of dim and weird-like thought,

A sweet voice whispered:-'Lo, the Christ

has risen,

And walks among the olives.' In glad haste,
Still through still city, and adown the street
Of Sorrows crept I to the gate, whose stones
Yet weep with Stephen's blood. The bearded

guard

Upturned a half-shut eye; near broken tomb,
Shivering a Jewish leper slept. All slept;
Only the wind moaned thro' the hollow gorge,
As of a prophet wailing in his grave,
And a leaf quivered on the gnarléd bough,
Ghostly beside dry Kedron. Up I clomb,
And with me clomb the mist, white-wingéd,

swift,

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