"Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear; And who felt how the best charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best;
Where the storms which we feel in this cold world
should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

T. MOORE.

THE WARFARE.

THY servants militant below,

Have each, O LORD, their post;
As Thou dost give, who best doth know
The soldiers of Thine host.

Some in the van are called to fight,
The battle's heat to share;
Some in the rear, with gifted might,
Are only bid to bear.

A nobler prize perchance is their's
To the fierce battle sent;
But he the glory also shares,
Who waits beside the tent.

More nobly done, in human eyes,
The foremost post to take;
But CHRIST will never those despise
Who suffer for His sake.

More honoured others, LORD, may be,

e;

But keep me near Thy Throne ; Light in Thy light content to see, And never in my own.

To hold their goal and mine in view, Delighted to sit still;

And evermore, if not to do,

At least to bear Thy will.

THE LAND I LOVE.

My heart is bounding onward,
Home to the land I love;
Its distant vales and fountains
My best affections move.

Fain would my fainting spirit
Its living freshness breathe;
And wearied steps find rest in

Its hallowed shades beneath.

No soil of nature's evil,

No touch of man's rude hand,
Shall e'er disturb around us

That bright and happy land.

The charms that woo the senses
Shall be as pure as fair,
For all the peace and brightness
Shall tell of JESUS there.

What light! when all its beaming
Shall own Him as its sun!
What music! when its breathing
Shall bear His Name along.

No change, no pause its pleasures
Shall ever seek to know;

The draught that stays our thirsting
But makes our thirst anew.

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. JOHN H. FORSYTH.

How late I saw thee in thy seeming bloom, Nor knew thee ripened for so near a tomb! Who, in that step so brisk, that brow so brave, That look so bright, could antedate thy grave?

V

Yet wert thou redolent of heaven e'en then,
Like a young seraph in the garb of men.
In thee were gentleness with zeal combined,
The sprightly converse with the serious mind;
Sweetness with firmness, elegance with truth,
And age's wisdom with the glow of youth.
But oh, of all Thy gifts, the last, the best,
Was love to JESUS centred in thy breast.
We heard thee eloquent on themes divine,
Nor thought how soon their glory would be thine :
While on thy words our fixed attention hung
Celestial unction touched thy heart and tongue.
Farewell, bright pattern of excelling grace,
How swiftly hast thou won thy heavenward race!
Oh, be the SPIRIT that on thee was breathed,
SPIRIT of heaven and love, to us bequeathed!

T. GRINFIELD.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

THE breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
Or the trumpet that sings of fame.

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear :

They shook the depths of the desert's gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.

The ocean eagle soared

From his nest by the white waves' foam : And the rocking pines of the forest roared : This was their welcome home.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a Faith's pure shrine.