Our harps, neglected, hung upon the trees, That threw their shadows o’er the wave’s dark rest, And sighed, responsive to each passing breeze That stirred a ripple on its slumbering breast. But they who led us _captive_ touched the string, And waked its music with unhallowed hand, And--mocking all our sadness--bade us sing The song of Zion in a foreign land. Oh! never, never!--hushed be now its strains, Far, far away her exiled children roam; And never will they sound on other plains, The holy music of their native home. _T. K. Hervey._ Thousands of Angels at Thy gate, And great archangels stand, And twenty thousand chariots wait, Great Lord, Thy dread command! Through all Thy great, Thy vast domain, With Godlike honours clad, _Captivity_ in _captive_ chains Triumphing Thou hast led. _Mickle._ CARE--CAREFUL. And the _cares_ of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, and the lusts of other things entering in, choke the word, and it becometh unfruitful.--Mark, iv. 19. That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same _care_ one for another.--I. Corinthians, xii. 25. Be _careful_ for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.--Philippians, iv. 6. Casting all your _care_ upon him; for he _careth_ for you.--I. Peter, v. 7. Esteem none happy by their outward air; All have their portion of allotted _care_, Though wisdom wears the semblance of content, When the full heart with agony is rent, Secludes its anguish from the public view, And by secluding, learns to conquer too; Denied the fond indulgence to complain, The aching heart its peace may best regain. By love directed, and in mercy meant, Are trials suffer’d, and afflictions sent; To stem imperious passion’s furious tide, To curb the insolence of prosperous pride, To wean from earth, and bid our wishes soar To that blest clime where pain shall be no more; Where wearied virtue shall for refuge fly, And every tear be wiped from every eye. _Hannah More._ The insect that with puny wing, Just shoots along one summer ray; The flow’ret, which the breath of spring Wakes into life for half a day. The smallest mote, the tenderest hair, All feel our heavenly Father’s _care_. E’en from the glories of His throne, He bends to view this earthly ball; Sees all as if that all were one, Loves as if that one were all; Rolls the swift planets in their spheres, And counts the sinner’s lonely tears. _Cunningham._