102 SELECT PORTRY

Whate’er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can
never cease,

Their lot may here be grief and care, but his is
certain peace.

It may be that the tempter’s wiles their souls from
bliss may sever,

But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours
for. ever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what
we still may be,

When we muse on that world’s perfect bliss, and
this world’s misery,

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel
this grief and pain,

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him
here again.

Moultrie.

 

A SUMMER EVENING.

How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,

How lovely azd joyful the course that he run,

Though he ross in a mist when his race he begun,
And there fotlowed some droppings of rain!

But now the fair traveller’s come to the west,

His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best ;

He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian: his course he Legins

Like the sun ina mist, while he mourns for his sins,

And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way :