GRACE TRIUMPHANT,

A MEMORIAL TO THE

CONVERSION AND DEATH OF JANE PITTS, A Character well known in the Towns of Plymouth, Dock, and Stonehouse.

O'er beaven's gate, a motto stands engrav'd,—
'Let sin alone be damn'd, but sinners sav'd;'
And o'er the gate of hell's dark dismal cave,
'Jesus the purchase of his blood will have :'

WHERE Tamer's torrent to the ocean ran,

There liv'd a wretch who feared not God nor man :-
Whose worthless name in life's fair volume stood,
Mark'd as a trophy of redeeming blood.
Of human kind, the very curse and scum;
Hopeless in this, and in that world to come.
With God himself, an open war she wag'd,
Nor heaven nor hell a single thought engag'd.
Deaf as the adder to the charming sounds
Of mercy, through a Saviour' bleeding wounds;
And blind to wisdom as th' encarned mole,
She stumbled on, and sinned without control :
When night's dim mantle veil'd the cheerful sun,
And man from toil to his repose was gone,
Throughout the town methinks I see her rove,
As if by hell's infernal legions drove :
And oft invoke heaven's dreadful ire to fall,
With horrid cry " Damnation on her soul."
Or with intoxicating vapours dead,
Her limbs are o'er the filthy kennel spread,
Without one friendly hand or pitying eye,
Till he the good Samaritan came by,

Bound up her bleeding wounds, his love to shew,
And o'er the wretch his spotless mantle threw ;
Said, with a look of love the most divine,
'This day I bid thee live, for thou art mine.'
O love! beyond the Seraph's piercing eye,
Where heights are lost and depths unfathom'd lie!
And length, and breadth, alike are known no more;
A sea without a brim, a bottom, bank, or shore.

Ye advocates for human merit, try

If ought like this the grace of God could buy ;
And blush to think that such a thought from hell,
Should for a moment in your bosom dwell.
Say, was it chance, or God's unerring skill.
His everlasting councils to fulfil,

That caused her feet to that dear spot to move,
Where friends should pass, who spoke of Jesu's love;
That sound, though soft, was louder heard by far,
Within her soul, than all the din of war;
And did at once her heart to pieces knock,
Though harder than the adamantine rock;
Then was an heart of living flesh bestow'd,
The first new cov'nant promise made by God.
Now down her cheeks in tears of sorrow roll
The deep contritions of her wounded soul:
Those very eyes, that once abused their sight,
Did now to heaven lift up their wat'ry light:
And that same tongue, that once blasphem'd amain,
For mercy call'd, through Jesu's blood and pain.
Amazing change! from death to life restor'd
Such was thy all-creating fiat, Lord,

Who out of nothing called the pond'rous earth,
And gave to universal nature birth!

The work was thine! 'tis wond'rous in our eyes-
Be thine the pow'r, the glory, and the praise.
This was th' auspicious day of God's great grace,
Sure, by decree, to all the ransom'd race,
When Jesus did his mighty arm display,
And grace, victorious, crown'd the glorious day.
Then the bright host their hallelujahs sung,

Till heaven's concave with shouts of triumph rung;
And grace was first and last in every song.
With holy, heavenly love each bosom glow'd,
For all to grace ten thousand talents ow'd,
Harmoniously their loud hosannahs raise,
And hym'd the Father, Son, and Spirit, thus:-
'Not unto us, O Lord not unto us,

But to thy name be all the glory due!
Great Three in One, eternal ages through!'
Hell heard the joyful acclamations made,
And murmurs fill'd the dire infernal shade.

That one so vile, so foul, so black as she,
Both justifi'd and glorifi'd, should be!
Now meet for glory, by the second birth,
It pleas'd the sov'reign Lord of earth

To call her hence, to that pure world of bliss
To love, and praise, and see him as he is.
But ere the summons came to leave the clay-
Of matchless grace, oh! what a full display,-
T'was her delight of Jesus now to tell,

Whose blood could save so vile a wretch from hell:
'On this foundation sure, (she said) I'll roll

My naked guilty, filthy, sinful soul.'

To one, a papist, near her dying bed,

She stretch'd her clay-cold trembling hands, and said,
On Jesus rest, for other hope there's none,

His blood the sinner's ransom paid alone;
Make him the rock, your everlasting stay,
And cast your idols, beads, and priest away.'
Her race was run. She dropp'd the mortal load,
And took her flight to glory and to God.

No fun'ral dirge was o'er her ashes sung,
Mortals were mute, but not th' angelic throng-
They sung responsive round the eternal throne,
The wond'rous deeds Almighty Love had done.
For grace to accomplish nothing is too hard,
It Saul unhors'd; and Lidia's heart unbarr'd,
Sav'd vile Manassa too, that ruffian bold,
In divination; blood, and murders old;
And with a look of everlasting love,

From Mary's breast a seven-fold demon drove.
And, oh! the wonders of its power to tell!
Poor Jane of Scotland, from the jaws of hell,
Sav'd as the dying thief, by grace alone.
Who left the gibbet for an heavenly throne,
At Jesu's feet her crown she humbly lays,
For ever lost in wonder, love and, praise.
No faith foreseen, or works, or duties done,
Which thousands rest their soul's immortal on,
In whole, or part, the wonderous grace procur'd,
God to himself the glory all secur'd.

PRAYER.

PRAYER is a haven to the shipwrecked mariner, an anchor unto them that are sinking in the waves, a staff to the limbs that totter, a mine of jewels to the poor, a security to the rich, a healer of disease, and a guardian of health. Prayer, at once secures the continuance of our blessings, and dissipates the cloud of our calamities. I speak of Prayer as a means to a certain end. Prayer also, is an all-efficient panoply, a treasure undiminished, a mine which never is exhausted, a sky unobscured by clouds, a haven unruffled by the storm, it is the root, the fountain, and the mother of a thousand blessings. I speak not of the prayer that is cold and feeble, heartless and lifeless, and devoid of energy; I speak of that which is the child of a contrite spirit, the offspring of a soul converted, born in a blaze of unutterable inspiration, and winged, like lightening, for the skies. The potency of prayer hath subdued the strength of fire; it hath bridled the rage of lions, hushed anarchy to rest, extinguished wars, appeased the elements, expelled demons, burst the chains of death, expanded the gates of heaven, assuaged diseases, repelled frauds, rescued cities from destruction, changed prisons into palaces; it hath stayed the sun in its course, and arrested the progress of the thunderbolt; in a word, it hath destroyed whatever is an enemy to man. I again repeat, that I speak not of the prayer engendered by the lips, but of that which ascends from the recesses of the heartthe prayer of faith and love. Assuredly, there is nothing more potent than prayer, yea, there is nothing comparable to it. A monarch vested in gorgeous habiliments is far less illustrious than a kneeling suppliant, ennobled and adorned by communion with his God. Consider how august a privilege it is, when angels are present and throng around, and with breathless attention listen to the petition of the suppliant; when Cherubim and Seraphim encircle with their blaze the throne; that a mortal may approach with unrestrained confidence, and converse with heaven's dread Sovereign. CHATTERIS.

THE BRUISED REED NOT BROKEN.

I ENTERED the little room. It was clean and tidy, with a bed in one corner farthest from the fire, by the side of which, in an old arm-chair, sat an idiot girl about seventeen years of age. She was

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dressed neatly, and looked happy, though ill. Her mother, a respectable-looking woman, was by her side. I took an offered chair, and drawing near the girl, asked how she was. She.replied, Sick.' And what have you in your lap? pointing to a book which lay there. She opened it, and with an expression of delight I shall not soon forget, reached it to me. It was the New Testament. 'Do you love the Lord, my dear child ?' 'Oh yes,' she replied, though with great difficulty: Jesus is good.' He is good, my poor child; what a mercy for you that he has enabled you to know it!" 'Oh yes,' she repeated again; 'Jesus is good. Mr. Maclay good man; Mr. Maclay tell poor Ellen of Jesus.' I turned inquirly to her mother, who told me her simple, affecting story. She had a year or two back been convinced that she was a sinner, and her distress of mind in consequence was so great that it brought on the illness (paralysis) with which she is now affected. Her intellect, feeble from her birth, is now nearly gone, and she is able to understand little else but that 'Jesus is good, and loves poor Ellen;' and this is her constant cry. She is always reading her New Testament, which, with a hymn book, is her constant companion. She was very attentive to all I said of the Lord, and listened with great eagerness. I read to her a hymn she gave me, and then, looking earnestly in my face, she said, pausing between each word, ‘ In— my-Father's-house-are-many-mansions.' As she could with difficulty speak, I repeated to her the following verses. oh, what an expression of joy and delight did she manifest! whole body was convulsed, and her ectasy seemed too much for her poor shattered frame to bear. She spread both her hands before her face, while tears of joy stood in her eyes. As soon as she could speak, Jesus is good; Jesus loves Ellen,' were the words which seemed most fully to express her whole heart. So great was her agitation, and so incessantly and rapidly were these words repeated, I was compelled to lay my hands gently upon her, and soothe her to silence. When I left her humble abode, I thought, 'There dwells an heir of glory, a joint-heir with Christ, in a cellar-kitchen, rich in faith!' Oh, how true the precious word of God: 'God hath chosen the foolish things of the world, and weak things of the world, and base things of the world, and things which are despised, aud things which are not, that no flesh sh glory in his presence.' From Mrs. Winslow's Life.

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