INNOCENT'S DAY.

O weep not o’er thy children's tomb,

O Rachel, weep not so :
The bud is cropt by martyrdom,

The flower in heaven shall blow.

Firstlings of faith, the murderer's knife

Has missed its deadliest aim :
The God for whom they gave their life,

For them to suffer came.

Though feeble were their days and few,

Baptized in blood and pain, He knows them, whom they never knew,

And they shall live again.

Then weep not o'er thy children's tomb,

O Rachel, weep not so:
The bud is cropt by martyrdom,

The flower in heaven shall blow.

SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS ; OR

CIRCUMCISION.

LORD of mercy and of might,
Of mankind the life and light,
Maker, teacher infinite,

Jesus, hear and save.

Who, when sin's tremendous doom
Gave Creation to the tomb,
Didst_not scorn the Virgin's womb,

Jesus, hear and save.

Mighty monarch, Saviour mild,
Humbled to a mortal child,
Captive, beaten, bound, reviled,

Jesus, hear and save.

Throned above celestial things,
Borne aloft on angel's wings,
Lord of lords, and King of kings,

Jesus, hear and save.

Who shalt yet return from high,
Robed in might and majesty,
Hear us, help us when we cry,

Jesus, hear and save.

1

EPIPHANY.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning,

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid. Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

Cold on his cradle the dew drops are shining,

Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall, Angels adore him in slumber reclining,

Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,

Odors of Edom and offerings divine ? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,

Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ampler oblation ;

Vainly with gifts would his favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration;

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid. Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

LUKE II.
ABASHED be all the boast of age,

Be hoary learning dumb,
Expounder of the mystic page,

Behold an infant come.

O Wisdom, whose unfading power

Beside the Eternal stood,
To frame, in nature's earliest hour,

The land, the sky, the flood;

Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile

An infant form to wear;
To bless thy mother with a smile,

And lisp thy faltered prayer.

But, in thy Father's own abode,

With Israel's elders round,
Conversing high with Israel's God,

Thy chiefest joy was found.

So may our youth adore thy name,

And, Saviour, deign to bless
With fostering grace the timid flame

Of early holiness.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

How sweet the lily grows,
How sweet the breath beneath the hill

Of Sharon's dewy rose.
Lo, such the child whose early feet

The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,

Is upward drawn to God.
By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away.
and soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage.
O Thou, whose infant feet were found

Within thy Father's shrine,
Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned

Were all alike divine,
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,

We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age and death,

To keep us still thine own.