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THE FALLEN TREE.

"Delivered unto death."

Tree that hast weathered many a blast,
Uprooted by the storm at last,

No more shalt thou, with graceful ease,
Bend to each fitful passing breeze;
No more, at Spring's return, be seen
Rich in thy dress of gladsome green;
No more afford a grateful shade
To those who saunter o'er the glade;
The ruthless storm has laid thee low,
The axe shall lop thee bough by bough,
The fire shall burn thy strength and pride,
Which storm and axe and fire defied;
What made thee thus an easy prey ?
Was it thine age? or did decay?
Or has the worm scooped him a bed
Within thy trunk, and on thee fed?

Whate'er the cause, cruel the blow
Which laid thee prematurely low,
While all around thy compeers tower,
Defiant of the tempest's power.

But wherefore muse upon thy state?
Such is my own, such others' fate :
A thousand chances ready stand
To execute the Lord's command;
The worm, the sword, a passing breath-
All are the ministers of death;

Unseen the hand which deals the blow,
The blow is dealt 'tis all we know:
To day in life, in health, in bloom-
To-morrow tenants of the tomb!
Nor age alone is doomed to fall,
Death strikes with cruel axe at all:
Scarce has the infant sucked the breast,
"Tis called for ever to its rest;

The tender child, like some fair flower,
Droops, sickens, dies, in one short hour;
Youth with its hope, man in his prime,
There's none who lives but has his time:
Not all the treasured stores of earth,

Not beauty, wisdom, rank, or worth,

Can interpose a brief delay,
Or purchase man one other day;
Or rich or poor, or high or low,
None can escape the fatal blow.

Yet not as trees we fall and die,
Ours is a higher destiny;

The Lord, to save us from the doom,
Himself lay lifeless in the tomb,

Suffered no ravage from decay,

Till thrice the sun brought round the day,
Then with the golden morn came forth
Bursting the prison-gates of earth,
Displayed the trophies of his power
In the new life his body bore,
And in the fulness of his might,
His chosen wondering at the sight,
Uplifted to the Heaven, withdrew,
Hid by a cloud from mortal view.
Where now, O Death, thy vaunted sting?
Where are thy terrors, mighty King?

Hell and the grave are now no more,
The Lord from Heaven-He has the power:
Our God shall come, and at his voice
Earth shall be glad and Heaven rejoice,

The mouldering fragments of the tomb Fresh life and beauty shall assume, And rise in glory to adore

The triumphs of his love and power.

CULTURE OF THE SOUL.

"Break up thy fallow land."

The sin so small

We scarce can think it is a sin at all

Will, if let go,

Become at last a mighty world of woe,
Just as the seed,

Chance-dropt at times, of some pernicious weed,
Left in the ground,

Will strangle all fair flowers which grow around :
Therefore beware,

And exercise betimes a watchful care;

Grudge not the toil,

Search well thy heart, and throughly cleanse the soil; Each lusty vice

Cut off at once at any sacrifice ;

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