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PARAPHRASE OF THE SEVENTH CHAPTER OF JOB.

Our days are numbered here below,
And filled with vanity and pain;
The lingering moments pass too slow;
But this impatience is in vain.

Restless I pass the weary night,

And long for morning's cheerful dawn;
But morning's sunbeams, dazzling bright,
Cannot bring peace, when health has flown.

My days of pain fly swiftly on,

As shuttle from the weaver's hand;
Soon will this weary race be run,
And I be swept from off the land.

Reviving hope has ceased to cheer

The anguish of my tortured heart;
There's naught but pain and sorrow here,
Oh! gracious God-let me depart!

When to my couch I restless fly,
I find no ray of comfort there-
Visions of darkness terrify

My wounded spirit, spent with care.

Oh! heavenly Father, end my life!

I loathe it, and would now resign
These days of vanity and strife —
Oh! God, I would be wholly thine.

My breath is like a passing cloud,
Borne on the boist'rous northern gale;
My wailings, nightly, loud resound
Throughout my own, my native vale!

Oh! what is man, poor feeble man,
That he should merit thy regard?
His longest date is but a span,

With suffering, pain, and anguish marr'd!

Why should'st thou visit him each morn,
And ev'ry passing moment try

His wayward faith, and prove how strong
His hopes on heaven and Thee rely?

I have sinned-thou great preserver!
Pardon my transgressions, Lord!
My pilgrimage will soon be over,
Teach me to rest upon thy word!

"I ASCEND UNTO MY FATHER AND YOUR FATHER, MY GOD AND YOUR GOD."

"Say, Mary, why these flowing tears?

Lone one, why dost thou weep?
Mourn not the errors of past years,
But let their mem❜ry sleep.

"Thy penitence hath washed away
The crimes of early youth,

And, through affliction, paved the way
To virtue, peace, and truth.

"Then why those tears? Oh! tell me why

Does grief contract thy brow?"

"Oh! canst thou not the cause descry?

Where is my Saviour now?

"Where hast thou laid my blessed Lord?
Why hast thou borne him hence?
His sacred relics I would guard
With love and penitence."

"Mary!" a well-known voice replied, Which thrilled her inmost soul;

She turned, and filled with wonder, cried "My Master, I behold!"

Oh! how her heart with rapture glowed
And burned with sacred fire,
When the soft accents gently flowed
Which faith and hope inspire!

"Oh! touch me not;-I have not yet
Ascended to my throne,

At His right hand I take my seat,
My Father, and thine own!

"Oh! Mary, haste, the tidings spread,
The brethren shall rejoice;

Tell them, though they beheld me dead,
Thyself hast heard my voice.

"Unto my Father I ascend,

Unto thy God and mine:
Oh! let their faith on me depend,
My power is all divine."

Transcendent goodness! wondrous grace!
And godlike was the plan,

Which brought salvation to the race
Of guilty, fallen man!

TO MY DEAR AND BELOVED FRIEND,
MRS.

Oh dearest, could my feeble pen
Express the feelings of my heart,
Or give to verse the soothing charm
Thy presence ever doth impart,

Then would I touch the trembling chord,
And pour forth the full tide of song,
Thine ear should catch the swelling strain
As the sweet numbers roll along.

But my weak lyre in vain essays

To touch the notes to friendship dear; Trembling it shrinks; the feeble lay Responds alone to sorrow's tear.

Oh, I would paint in glowing verse
Thy gentle, tender, faithful love
For the dear objects of my care-
Those fair young angels now above.

Oft hast thou watched the germs of thought, And seen the swelling buds expand,

Inhaled the fragrance of the flowers,

When blooming 'neath my fostering hand.

And thou hast marked the swift decay,
The blight of all my dearest hopes,
And wept to see them fade away,
My fairest, dearest earthly props.

And when my mourning soul looked up To find some resting place from grief, Thy gentle voice has led my heart

To the true source of sweet relief.

There, in yon blissful realms of light,
In spotless purity they stand,
Before their Lord and Saviour's throne,
Behold! my fair young angel band.

Their sacred lyres are tuned to sing
The praises of redeeming love;
Their full rich tones melodious join
The saint and seraph choir above.

Oh, dearest, may this mourning heart
E'er hope to join that youthful band
Of angels, in those regions bright,
The pure, the blessed spirit land?

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