At home they gayly share

Their sweet and simple fare,

And thank the Giver of the festal board :
Around the blazing hearth

They sit in harmless mirth,

Or turn with awe the volume of the Lord:

Then full of heavenly joy, retiring pay

Their sacrifice of prayer to Him who blessed the day.

O sabbath-bell, thy voice
Makes hearts like these rejoice;

Not so the child of vanity and power.
He the blest pavement treads
Perchance as custom bids,

Perchance to gaze away a listless hour;

Then crowns the bowl, or roams along the road,

Nor hides his shame from men, nor heeds the eye of God

When the seventh morning's gleam
Purpled the lonely stream,

On its green bank of old the Christian bowed.
The hand adoring spread,

And broke the mystic bread;

And, leagued in bonds of holy concord, vowed
From the cleansed heart to wash each foul offence,
And give his days to peace and saintly innocence.

In vain the Roman lord
Waved the relentless sword,

And spread the terrors of the circling flame;
In vain the heathen sought,

If chance some lurking spot

Might mar the lustre of the Christian name,
Th' Eternal Spirit by his fruits confessed,

In life secured from stains, and stceled in death the breast.

O would his influence bless

With faith and holiness,

The laggard people of our favored isle!
But if too deep and wide

Heaven spread corruption's tide,

O might he deign on me and mine to smile;
So shall we ne'er with due devotion fail
The consecrated day of solemn rest to hail :

So shall we still resort

To Sion's hallowed court,

And lift the heart to Him that dwells above;
Thence, home returning, muse

On sweet and solemn views,

Or fill the mind with acts of holy love;

Then lay us down in peace, to think we're given Another precious day to fit our souls for heaven.

A COTTAGE SCENE.

MANT.

I SAW a cradle at a cottage-door,
Where the fair mother, with her cheerful wheel,
Carolled so sweet a song, that the young bird
Which, timid, near the threshold sought for seed,
Paused on his lifted foot, and raised his head
As if to listen. The rejoicing bees
Nestled in throngs amid the woodbine cups
That o'er the lattice clustered. A clear stream

Came leaping from its sylvan height, and poured
Music upon the pebbles; and the winds,
Which gently 'mid the vernal branches played
Their idle freaks, brought show'ring blossoms down,
Surfeiting earth with sweetness. Sad I came
From weary commerce with the heartless world:
But, when I felt upon my withered check
My mother Nature's breath, and heard the tramp
Of those gay insects at their honeyed toil,
Shining like winged jewelry, and drank
The healthful odor of the flow'ring trees
And bright-eyed violets-but, most of all,
When I beheld mild slumb'ring innocence,
And on that young maternal brow the smile
Of those affections which do purify
And renovate the soul-I turned me back
In gladness, and with added strength, to run
My weary race, lifting a thankful prayer

To Him who showed me some bright teint of heaven
Here on the earth, that I might safer walk,
And firmer combat sin, and surer rise
From earth to heaven.

WHERE IS HE?

SIGOURNT

AND where is he? Not by the side
Of her whose wants he loved to tend;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend!
That form beloved he marks no more;

Those scenes admired no more shall see-
Those scenes are lovely as before,

And she as fair-but where is he?

No, no, the radiance is not dim
That used to gild his favorite hill;
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still:
But ah! his home is not so fair,

Neglected must his garden be-
The lilies droop and wither there,

And seem to whisper, where is he?
His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now the proud display?
His riches, honors, pleasures, all

Desire could frame: but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by adiniring bands,
Seemed proudly strong-and where is he?

The churchyard bears an added stone,
The fireside shows a vacant chair!
Here sadness dwells and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there;
The life has gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been no more shall be;
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
Oh! where are they? and where is he?
NEELL

JACOB'S DREAM.

THE sun was sinking on the mountain zone
That guards thy vale of beauty, Palestine!
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-aram's height abrunt and bare
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline
Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air;
The summit gained, he knelt, and breathed his evening
prayer.

He spread his cloak and slumbered-darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered :ound
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound;
Still deeper rolled the darkness from on high,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound;

Above, a pillar shooting to the sky;

Where Thy refreshing pastures grow,

Below, a mighty sea that spread incessantly.
Voices are heard-a choir of golden strings,
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels-the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows.
It thunders-the resplendent gates unclose

Far as the eye can glance; on height o'er height
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows,
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright,
Till all is lost in one supreme unmingled light.
But two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub-kings, with lifted mighty plume,
Fixed sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom;
Father of countless myriads that shall come,
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till he is given, whose angels long to see,
And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.

THE MARTYRDOM OF CRANMER.

CROLY.

Where all Thy chosen flock is fed,
Where living waters gently flow,

There may our wandering feet be led;
Direct us toward the heavenly hill,
And bear us in thy bosom still.
Much do we need Thy watchful care,
Through every day and every hour;
For life is set with many a snare,

And Satan wanders to devour:
But we are safe from all alarms,
Within our heavenly Shepherd's arms.
Here in the Gospel we are told

What great compassion was in Thee,
When mothers brought their babes of old-
Poor helpless children such as we;'
E'en to thy tender bosom brought-
And thou didst say "Forbid them not."
And thus encouraged by thy grace,

To those still open arms we fly! And though we can not see Thy face, Yet Thou canst bless us from on high: For still Thy gracious word, we see, Says "Suffer them to come to me.'

JANE TAYLOR.

Lo! gathering round a dungeon door,
Appear the soldier's plume and lance;
And restless crowds around it pour,

With eager step and wrathful glance-
Upon their cheeks the bigot's smile-
The bondslaves dark of priestly guile.
And now the dungeon's portals ope,

Now from its archway deep and dim,
Gleam silver cross and broidered cope,

And solemn swells the priestly hymn;
Beneath the torch's ruddy glare,
Are mitred brows and tonsures bare.

But who comes forth? His step is slow,
His eye is bent upon the ground,
And when are heard the sighs of wo,
He looks as if he heard the sound-
As if no other soul was there-
With wan lips moving still in prayer:
No longer stoops that captive's brow,
His form erect in majesty,
His pale cheek lighted with the glow
Of one who sees deliverance nigh-
The entrance to the promised rest-
The welcome 'mong the Savior's blest.
The pile is lit-the flames ascend;
Yet peace is in the martyr's face;
And unseen visitants attend

That chief of England's priestly race:
Mightier in peril's darkest hour,

Than when enthroned in rank and power.

Steadfast he stood in that fierce flame,

As standing in his own high hall :
He said, as sadness o'er him came,
Remembrance of his mournful fall-
Stretching it to the burning brand—
"First perish this unworthy hand!"

Thy foul and cruel deed, O Rome!
Is vain; that blazing funeral pyre
Where Cranmer died, shall soon become
To England as a beacon-fire:
And he hath left a glorious name,
Victorious over gore and flame.

ANDREW R. BONAR.

HYMN FOR CHILDREN.

JESUS, our gentle Shepherd, see
These tender lambs of Zion's fold;
Lo! we are come to follow thee;

Gather and guard us as of old:

While through the desert world we stra", Preserve us in the narrow way.

MORNING IN JUDEA.

THE Sun is up-from Carmel's woody brow
His orient radiance rushes like a flood-
A generous stream by whose fresh influence grow
The flowers that blossom, and the trees that bud;
The moon that rose at eve as if the blood

Of life was in her veins, turns pale as clay

From which the life has fled; the stars that stud The midnight sky by thousands, glide away Like foam-blown bells that burst within the ocean's buy

The night even like a fierce despotic king

That wraps the nation in a fearful shade,

Dark as the darkness which the death-glooms fling
Around the sepulchre where bones are laid;
The night departs-as when with power arrayed,
Some generous monarch from his throne has hurled
The gloomy tyrant, humbled and dismayed;
For now the gates of morning are unfurled,
And light, and loveliness, and joy, possess the world.

The dew-bent lilies, by the breezes kissed,
Awake in beauty on their grassy beds,
Like lovely infants from the mother's breast,
That joys to pillow their protected heads;
On Zion's holy hill the green-grape sheds
Its sweet perfume; the fig-tree is in blow,

On fertile Lebanon the corn-field spreads
Its store, and to the winds that o'er it go,
Heaves as the billows heave with undulating flow.

On Gilead's pastures green the bleating flocks
Disport, in Jordan's stream the fishes play;
The snow-white goats are gambolling on the rocks,
The insects dancing in the sunny ray;
The humming bees upon their early way
Are wandering happily from flower to flower;
And all unseen, where twilight shadows gray
Are lingering still, the wild birds in the bower
Pour out their choral song unto the matin hour.

And man comes from his dwelling forth-afar
He casts his eye o'er all the happy sight,
And lifts his heart to Him whose mercies are
Each morning new, whose faithfulness each night;
To Him who sends the sun in all his might
To bid the forests bud, the flowerets bloom;
Who fills the lower creatures with delight,
Who sweeps the shadows from the hearts of gloom,
And feeds the aspiring sorl with hopes beyond the tomb.
KNOX.

NATURE.

How sweet at summer's noon, to sit and mise
Beneath the shadow of some ancient elm !
While at my feet the mazy streamlet flows
In tuneful lapse, laving the flowers.that bend
To kiss its tide; while sport the finny throng
On the smooth surface of the crystal depth
In silvery circles, or in shallows leap,
That sparkle to the sunbeam's trembling glare.
Around the tiny jets, where humid bells
Break as they form, the water-spiders weave,
Brisk on the eddying pools, their ceaseless dance.
The wild bee winds her horn, lost in the cups
Of honeyed flowers, or sweeps with ample curve;
While o'er the summer's lap is heard the hum
Of countless insects sporting on the wing,
Inviting sleep. And from the leafy woods
One various song of bursting joy ascends,
While echo wafts the notes from grove to bill;
From hill to grove the grateful concert spreads,
As borne on fluttering plumes, encircling make
The happy birds flit through the balmy air,
Where plays the gossamer; and, as they felt
The general joy, bright exhalations dance;
And shepherd's pipe, and song of blooming maid,
Quick as she turns the odor-breathing swathes
Of new-mown hay, and children playing round
The ivy-clustered co., and low of herds,
And bleat of lambs, that crop the verdant sward
With daisies spread, while smiles the heaven serene,
All wake to ecstacy, or melt to love,

And to the Source of goodness raise the soul-
Raise it to him, exhaustless Source of bliss!
That like the sun, best emblem of Himself,
For ever flowing, yet for ever full,
Diffuses life and happiness to all.

REV. W. GILLESPIE.

CONSOLATION.

PILGRIM burthened with thy sin,
Come the way to Zion's gate,
There, till mercy lets thee in,
Knock, and weep, and watch, and wait.
Knock-He knows the sinner's cry;
Weep! He loves the mourner's tears;
Watch!-for saving grace is nigh;
Wait-till heavenly light appears.
Hark! it is the bridegroom's voice:
Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest;
Now within the gate rejoice,

Safe, and sealed, and bought, and blest.
Safe-from all the lures of vice,
Sealed-by signs the chosen know,
Bought by love, and life the price,
Blest-the mighty debt to owe.
Holy pilgrim! what for thee,
In a world like this remain ?
From thy guarded breast shall flee,
Fear, and shame, and doubt, and pain.
Fear-the hope of heaven shall fly,
Shame from glory's view retire,
Doubt-in certain rapture die,
Pain-in endless bliss expire

TOO LATE.

CRABBE.

To 'ate-too late! how heavily that phrase

Comes, like a knell, upon the shuddering ear, Telling of slighted duties, wasted days;

Of privileges lost, of hopes once dear

Now quenched in gloom and darkness. Words like these
The worldling's callous heart must penetrate-
All that he might have been in thought he sees,
And sorrows o'er his present wreck too late.

Too late too late! the prodigal who strays

Through the dim groves and winding bowers of sin;

The cold and false deceiver, who betrays
The trusting heart he fondly toiled to win;
The spendthrift, scattering his golden store,
And left in age despised and desolate,
All may their faults confess, forsake, deplore,
Yet struggle to retrieve the past too late.

Too late-too late! O dark and fatal ban,
Is there a spell thy terrors to assuage?
There is there is! but seek it not from man:
Seek for the healing balm in God's own page;
Read of thy Savior's love, to him repair-

He looks with pity on thy guilty state;
Kneel at his throne in deep and fervent prayer-
Kneel and repent, ere yet it is too late.
Too late-too late! that direful sound portends
Sorrow on earth, but not immortal pain:
Thou mayst have lost the confidence of friends,
The love of kindred thou mayst ne'er regain;
But there is One above who marks thy tears,
And opes for thee salvation's golden gate.
Come, then, poor mourner, cast away thy fears.
Believe, and enter-it is not too late!

PILATE'S QUESTION.

WHAT is truth?

The fickle Roman

Asked, nor waited for reply. Question of momentous omen! Shall I also pass it by? No, my Lord! I'll turn me to it, Anxious all its depths to sound; Let me humbly, closely, view it, Til I have the answer found.

What is truth? The only token
Lent to guide our blinded race,
Is the Word which God hath spoken
By the heralds of his grace.
Thence we learn how helpless strangers,
Guilty rebels, such as we,

May escape ten thousand dangers,
Burst our fetters, and be free.

What is truth? That man is mortal,
Wretched, feeble, and depraved;
Dying still at mercy's portal,
Yet unwilling to be saved:
Oft to safety's path invited,
Prone from it to wander far;
In the blaze of noon benighted,
With himself and God at war.

What is truth? That He, who made us,
He, who all our weakness knows,
Stooped himself from heaven to aid us,
Bear our guilt, and feel our woes.
Like the lamb the peasant slaughters,
See him unresisting led;
'Midst the tears of Judah's daughters,
Mocked, and numbered with the dead!

Yes, my soul! thy lost condition
Brought the gentle Savior low;
Hast thou felt one hour's contrition
For those sins which pierced him so
Dost thou bear the love thou owest
For such proof of grace divine?
Meek I answer, Lord, thou knowest,
That this heart is wholly thine!

Long, indeed, too long I wandered
From the path thy children tread;
Long my time and substance squandered,
Seeking that which was not bread.,
Now-though flesh may disallow it,
Now-though sense no glory see,
In thy strength, my God! I vow it,
Ne'er again to turn from thee!

DR. HUIL

ADDRESS TO POETS.
YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,

(If the word be not too bold), Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old-
Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye who hath set your parts?
He, who gave you breath to sing,

By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you to lead

His hosannas here below;-
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and wo.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,

Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest, High and low in choir shall meet,

Ere His name shall be unblest.
Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung,

That thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here!
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,

Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal
Lips that might half heaven reveal-
Should bards in idol-hym.as profane
The sacred soul enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using),
Then, thy power and mercy show,

In vile things noble breath infusing.

Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of thy shrine,

Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore,
Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,

Thou wilt own the minstrelsey,

If it flow from childlike hearts.

THE METEOR.

A SHEPHERD on the silent moor
Pursued his lone employ,

And by him watched, at midnight hour,
His loved and gentle boy.

KEBLE.

The night was still, the sky was clear,
The moon and stars were bright;
And well the youngster loved to hear
Of those fair orbs of light.
When, lo! an earth-born meteor's glare
Made stars and planets dim;
In transient splendor through the air
Its glory seemed to swim.

No more could stars' or planets' spell
The stripling's eye enchant,
He only urged his sire to tell
Of this new visitant.

But ere the shepherd found a tongue,
The meteor's gleam was gone ;
And in their glory o'er them hung
The orbs of night alone.
Canst thon the simple lesson read,
My artless muse hath given !
The only lights that safely lead,

Are those that shine from heaven!

BARTON.

SAUL JOURNEYING TO DAMASCUS. WHOSE is that sword-that voice and eye of flameThat heart of unextinguishable ire?

Who bears the dungeon keys, and bonds of fire ?
Along his dark and withering path he came
Death in his looks, and terror in his name,
Tempting the might of heaven's Eternal Sire.

Lo! the light shone !-the sun's veiled beams expire-
A Savior's self, a Savior's lips proclaim!
Who is yon form, stretched on the earth's cold bed,
With smitten soul and tears of agony

Mourning the past? Bowed is the lofty head-
Rayless the orbs that flashed with victory.
Over the raging waves of human will

The Savior's spirit walked-and all was still!

Roscom

HYMN FOR THE OPENING OF A CHURCH.

O THOU to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung,
Whom kings adored in song sublime,
And prophets praised with glowing tongue.

Not now, on Zion's height alone,
Thy favored worshipper may dwell,
Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well.
From every place below the skies,
The grateful song, the fervent prayer-
The incense of the heart-may rise

To heaven, and find acceptance there.
In this Thy house, whose doors we now
For social worship first unfold,
To Thee the suppliant throng shall bow,
While circling years on years are rolled.

To Thee shall Age, with snowy hair,

And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee,
And Childhood lisp, with reverent air,
Its praises and its prayers to Thee.

O Thou, to whom, in ancient time,
The lyre of prophet bards was strung,
To Thee, at last, in every clime,
Shall temples rise and praise be sung.
PIERPONY

CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught,

That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death; Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame, or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumors freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend :This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, and fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

WOTTON

Hurrah! the foes are moving-hark to the mingled din Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies-upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in w As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of varre !

Ho! maidens of Vienna !-ho! matrons of Lucerne! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never st

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spe men's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms bright;

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and wa to-night,

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath ran the slave,

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of t brave.

Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories are: And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navar T. B. MACAULEY.

LABORERS' NOON-DAY HYMN.
Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy off'rings at noon-tide;
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.
Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God.

Why should we crave a hallowed spot!
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to heaven !—the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run;
He can not halt or go astray-
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord, since his rising in the east,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course.

Help with thy grace, through life's short day,
Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.

WORDSWORTH

CHRIST IN THE GARDEN.

A WREATH of glory circles still His head-
And yet he kneels-and yet he seems to be
Convulsed with more than human agony;
On his pale brow the drops are large and red
As victim's blood at votive altar shed-

His hands are clasped, his eyes are raised in prayer
Alas! and is there strife he can not bear,
Who calmed the tempest, and who raised the dead?
There is! there is! for now the powers of hell

Are struggling for the mastery-'tis the hour When Death exerts his last permitted power, When the dread weight of sin since Adam fell, Is visited on him, who deigned to dwell

A man with men—that he might bear the stroke Of wrath divine, and burst the captive's yoke But O! of that dread strife what words can tell?