MEDITATIONS ON A BIRTHDAY EVE. By REV. JOHN PIERPONT.

Day, with its labors, has withdrawn. The stars look down from heaven, And whisper, “Of thy life are gone Full seventy years and seven!” While those bright worlds, by angels trod, Thus whispering round me roll, Let me commune with thee, my God! Commune with thee, my soul! Thou, Father, canst not change thy place, Nor change thy time to be. What are the boundless fields of space, Or what are years to Thee? But unto me, revolving years Bring change, bring feebler breath; Bring age,—and, though they bring no fears, Bring slower steps, pain, death. This earthly house thy wisdom plann’d, And leased me for a term, The house I live in, seems to stand On its foundation firm. I hardly see that it is old; But younger eyes find proof Of its long standing, who behold The gray moss on its roof. Spirit! thou knowest this house, erelong, To kindred dust must fall. Hast thou, while in it, grown more strong, More ready for the call To meet thy Judge, amid “the cloud Of witnesses,” who’ve run Their heavenward race, and joined the crowd, Who wreaths and crowns have won? Hast thou, in search of Truth, been true? True to thyself and her? And been, with many or with few, Her honest worshipper? E’en truths, wherein the Past hath stood, Wouldst thou inherit blind? They’re good; but there’s a better good,— The power more truths to find. And hast thou occupied that power, And made one talent five? If so, then peaceful be this hour! Thou’st saved thy soul alive. Hast thou e’er given the world a page, A line that thou wouldst blot, As adverse to an upward age? God knoweth thou hast not! Giver of life and all my powers, To thee my soul I lift! And in these lone and thoughtful hours, I thank thee for the gift. Day, with its toil and care withdrawn, Night’s shadows o’er me thrown, Another of my years is gone, And here I sit alone. No, not alone! for with me sit My judges,—God and I; And the large record we have writ, Is lying open by. And as I hope, erelong, to swell The song of seraphim, And as that song the truth will tell, My judgment is with Him. Spirit! thy race is nearly run. Say, hast thou run it well? Thy work on earth is almost done; How done, no man can tell. Spirit, toil on! thy house, that stands Seventy years old and seven, Will fall; but one, “not made with hands” Awaiteth thee in heaven.