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griefs, allays my fears,

Yet he who once vouclisaf'd to bear and treasures up my tears. The sickening anguish of despair, buld tempt my soul to stray Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, enly wisdom's narrow way ;

The throbing heart, the streaming eye. food I would pursue,

When mourning o'er some stone I bend, aing I would not do;

Which covers all that was a friend, ho felt temptation's power And from his voice, his hand, his smile, me in that dang'rous hour. Divides me for a little while, love my bosoin swell,

Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I ghed; those I priz'd too well,

For thou did'st weep o'er Lazarus' dead. pitying aid bestow,

And, oh! when I have safely past 1 earth severer woe ;

Through every conflict But the last; rayed, denied, or fled,

Still, still, unchanging, watch beside ho shar'd his daily bread. My painful bed, for thou hast died ; lg thoughts within me rise, Then point to realms of cloudless day, lismayed, my spirit dies; And wipe the latest tear away.

R. GRANT. THE CRUCIFIXION. the accursed tree,

Bound upon the accursed tree, leeding, who is He?

Sad and dying, who is He?. so pale and dim,

By the last and bitter cry, blood, and writhing limb

The ghost given up in agonywith scourges torn

By the lifeless body laid vn of twisted thorn

In the chambers of the deadso deeply pierced

By the mourners come to weep ed, burning thirst

Where the bones of Jesus sleepping death-dew'd brow

Crucified, we know thee now, 'tis thou! 'tis thou!

Son of Man, 'tis thou! 'tis thou ! 1 the accursed tree,

Bound upon the accursed tree, wful, wiio is He?

Dread and awful, who is He? at noon-day pale,

By the prayer for them that slew, bcks, and rending veil

Lord, they know not what they doat trembled at His doon

By the spoiled and empty graveaints who burst their tomb By the souls He died to saveomised, ere He died,

By the conquest He hath won1 at His side

By the saints before His throneuppliant knees we bow,

By the rainbow round His brow'tis thou! 'tis thou ! Son of God, 'tis thou! 'tis thou.

MILMAY. THE FAIREST FLOWER. flower that ever blow'd

Nor can the tongue of angels tell Calvary's tree,

How bright the colours be. k' blood in rivers flow'd,

But soon, on yonder banks above, bf worthless me.

Shall every blossom here, hue, its sweetest smell,

Appear a full-blown flower of love, I can declare ;

Like Him transplanted there.

THE SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. land's icy mountains,

In vain with lavish kindness la's coral strand;

The gifts of God are strewn ; c's sunny fountains

The heathen, in his blindness, their golden sand.

Bows down to wood and stone. an ancient river,

Shall we, whose souls are lighted y a balmıy plain,

With wisdom from on high; s to deliver

Shall we, to man benighted, I from error's chain.

The lamp of life deny! h the spicy breezes

Salvation ! oh! salvation ! on Ceylon's isle,

The joyful sound proclaim, ry prospect pleases,

Till each remotest nation man is vile,

Has learnt Messiah's name.

Waft, waft ye winds, His story,

Till o'er our ransom'd nature. And you, ye waters, roll,

The Lamb for sinner's slain Till, like a sea of glory,

Redeemer, King, Creator, It spreads from pole to pole ;

In bliss return to reign.

HEBER. WHAT IS TIME? I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares, And they replied, (no oracle more wise, ) Wrinkled and curv'd, and white with hoary "'Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest hairs:

prize !" “ Time is the warp of life," he said ;“O tell I ask'd a spirit lost ; but, oh! the shriek The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it That pierc'd my soul! I shudder while I well!"

speak, I ask'd the ancient, venerable dead.

It cried, “A particle, a speck, a mite Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: Of endless years, duration infinite!" From the cold grave a hollow murmur Of things inanimate, my dial I flow'd,

Consulted ; and it made me this reply: " Time sow'd the seeds we reap, in this "Time is the season fair of living well, abode!"

The path to glory, or the path to hell I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the stroke 1 ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said, Of ruthless death life's golden bowl had “Time is the present hour, the past is tied: broke;

Live, live to-day ; tomorrow never pet I ask'd him, What is time? “ Time," he On any human being rose or set." replied,

I ask'd old father Time himself, at last : "I've lost it,-ah! the treasure !" and he But in a moment he flew swiftly past; died.

His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, His noiseless steeds, that left no trace lot Those bright chronometers of days and hind. years :

I ask'd the mighty angel, who shall stan! They answer'd, “ Time is but a meteor's One foot on sea, and one on solid land; glare,'

“By heaven's great King, I swear the And bade me for eternity prepare.

myst'ry's o'er ! I ask'd the seasons in their annual round, Time was," he cried ; “but time shall lie Which beautify or desolate the ground; no more!"

MARSDES. SIC VITA. Like to the falling of a star,

Even such is man, whose borrowed light Or as the flight of eagles are ;

Is straight called in and paid to night. Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue, The wind blows out, the bubble dies, Or silver drops of morning dew;

The spring entomb d in autumn lies; Or like a wind that chafes the flood,

The dew dries up, the star is shot,Or bubbles which on water stood;

The flight is past, and man forgot.

KING. TIME. Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall,

Before my breath, like smoking flax, Thou aged carle, so stern and grey ? Man and his marvels pass away; Dost thou its former pride recal,

And changing empires wane and wax, Or ponder how it pass'd away?

Are founded, flourish, and decay. Know'st thou not me? the deep voice cried, Redeem mine hours, the space is brief, So long enjoy'd, so oft misus'd ;

While in my glass the sand grains shiver. Alternate in thy fickle pride,

And measureless thy joy and grief Desired, neglected, and accused.

When time and thou shalt part for ever.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE TIME IS SHORT. Short is the time of man below,

To buy and sell, to plough and reap. His time of weal and time of woe ;

To watch and toil, to rest and sleep. Few are the steps, and brief the space The time is short, then judge arigbt, Allotted for his earthly race.

And learn the lesson of its flight: The time is short to follow gain,

For in that time, and that alone, The time experience to attain,

Eternity is lost or won.

The dew it is pas

Anare founine hours the sandd grief

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hough time be short, O man! The time is short to bear thy cross, measur'd by its span;

And scorn endure, and suffer loss ; ch still a child may die,

That time of trial soon will close, rears the infant lie.

And even the vaunting of thy foes. time; of sinners here

Short is the time ; the road of life heir mad career ;

Too short for variance and for strife; the fools ungodly mirth, Shall pilgrim travellers of a day at crackle on the hearth. Fall out and wrangle by the way? le time is short to prove Now to the earth, with dread import, i labour and of love;

The voice proclaims that time is short ; Which thy Master gave

For when again it shakes the sky, venue in the grave.

Time is no more, that voice will cry.

GLASSFORD. THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM. dened with thy sin,

Safe from all the lures of vice, way to Zion's gate;

Owned by joys the contrite know; ercy speaks within,

Bought by love, and life the price, I weep, and watch, and wait. Blest the mighty debt to owe. hows the sinner's cry

Holy pilgrim, what for thee, loves the mourner's tears-- In a world like this remains; aving grace is nigh

From thy guarded breast shall flee, eavenly grace appears.

Fear, and shame, and doubt, and pains. hy Saviour's voice-

Fear, the hope of heaven shall fleepilgrim, to thy rest;

Shame from glory's view retirehe gate rejoice,

Doubt, in full belief shall die wn'd, and bought, and blest. Pain, in endless joy, expire.

CRABPE. LINES UPON A MOTHER'S DEATH. · her!-ye mourning throng, His word, His law, was her command, bosom heave a sigh;

His rod, His staff' was in her hand, e the joyful song :

Weep not for her!- darkness and death Saint hath reached the sky! May claim the mortal frame of clay, e hath passed away

And friends may seek the silent path o heaven-from night to day. That leads to homes shut out from day !

her !-no melting tears But whom ye mourn,--she worships now hough thus unbid they flow; Where priests, and kings, and angels bow ! ven round of years,

Weep not for ber!-a chosen band d from a world of woe!

Bid her high welcome to that shore, re sin and death hold reign, Whose waters wash the better land, she ne'er shall taste again. Where sin and sorrow meet no more ;-her !--if joy is given

Where the pure spirit now is freepentant sinners won;

Where care and weeping may not be. Tore joy is felt in heaven Weep not for her!--the Seraphs' song, o always loved the Son !

"Worthy the Lamb that once was slain," cross was her renown;

Is shouted heaven's high courts among; hold! she wears the crown. And ONE more voice now swells the her !- the journey's o'er,

strain. metimes weary was the way, Take comfort, children, do not weep, s oft and trials sore,

She did not die, but fell asleep. od Shepherd was her stay.

R. GILFILLAN,

S WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF A VILLAGE CHURCH pofless village church,

Dread Time, how mighty is thy strength ! r and turrets riven;

Thy power, what can outbrave ? ouse of God no more,

When thus we mark thy ravages le gate of heaven.

On the enduring grave. en, in ruins lie,

What time the Sabbath morn comes round, ow to decay;

The week's sad toilings o'er, al mounds are gone,

We see the train of villagers ents away.

Assemble here no more.

FEAR OF DEATH. HEB. ii. 15. Not that from life and all its woes,

In vain the flattering verse may breathe.
The hand of death shall set me free; Of ease from pain, and rest from strife;
Not that this heart shall then repose There is a sacred dread of death
In the low vale most peacefully.

Inwoven with the strings of life.
Ah! when I touch time's farthest brink, 1 his bitter cup at first was given
A kinder solace must attend;

When angry justice frown'd serere ; It chills my very soul to think

And 'tis the eternal doom of heaven. On that dread hour when life must end. That man must view the grave with fear.

BRYANT

GUARDIAN ANGELS.-Heb. i. 14. Gently, gently fall, sweet sleep,

Pray, then, strive to enter in C'er thine eyelids soft and deep,

Through the cold world's woe and sin. Gently as the breath of flowers

In each glad and gloomy hour, In the bright noon's honey'd hours.

In thy weakness, in thy power, Gently as the dews of heaven

Pray, and we will be with thee, On the wild rose at the even.

Pray, and we will strengthen thee. Thou art pure, immortal one,

Aye, on the land and on the seas, Oh! be pure till life is done.

In the tempest and the breeze, We would take thee in thy bloom,

In the solemn hush of night, Froin the dim walls of the tomb

In the loud morn's burst of light, We would bear thee, blest and fair,

Strive, oh! strive; around, above thee, Where thy home and kindred are.

We will lead, and we will love thee.

AxosyMOUS OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY? Our fathers, where are they?

What the sculptured storied urn, The prophets, do they live for ay ?

Whence oft with pensive heart we turn Ask the fair and teeming earth,

In Arab's waste, the mystic pile, Ask the lands that gave them birth.

That wondering travellers oft beguile;
The grass that springs at morning light The sacred vaults of Eastern clime,
Is rudely cropp'd ere dewy night;

The statues' ruins, works sublime,
The flower that blooms in sunny vale All tell the same unbidden tale,-
Is nipp'd by winter's chilling gale;

The prophets and our sires bewail;
The oak that braves the tempest's shock These mark their graves, where, moulder-
Is leveli'd by the lightning's stroke.

ing, they Fair spring comes dancing, crown'd with In silence wait Time's final day; flowers ;

When, at the trumpet's quickening peal, Sweet summer sings in leafy bowers; All systems from their spheres shall reel Wan autumn revels in the blast;

The living change, the dead arise, Old hoary winter trembles past.

And flames envelope earth and skies, What means the little grassy mound, In fiery chariots God shall come, With flowerets deck'd and willow bound? And welcome His beloved home.

G. M. BELI. NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE. Say, why should friendship grieve for those Secure from every mortal care,

Who safe arrive on Canaan's shore ? By sin and sorrow vexed no more; Releas'd from all their hurtful foes,

Eternal happiness they share, They are not lost, but gone before.

Who are not lost, but gone before. How many painful days on earth

To Zion's peaceful courts above, Their fainting spirits numbered o'er ; In faith triumphant may we soar, Now they enjoy a heavenly birth ;

Embraciug in the arms of love, They are not lost, but gone before.

The friends not lost, but gone before. Dear is the spot where Christians sleep To Jordan's bank, whene'er we come,

And sweet the strain which angels pour; And hear the swelling waters rour, O why should we in anguish weep?

Jesus, convey us safely home, They are not lost, but gone before.

To friends not lost, but gone before

Axos.

bowere

What meanwinter is in the

BIBLICAL AND INFIDEL GEOLOGY DIRECTLY OPPOSED ;

OR,

A REFUTATION OF

DR. JOHN PYE SMITH'S GEOLOGY,

AS CONTAINED IN HIS WORK ON

THE RELATION BETWEEN THE HOLY SCRIPTURES AND

SOME PARTS OF GEOLOGICAL SCIENCE.

BY THE

REV. THOMAS LOCKERBY,

MINISTER OF CADDER.

In demolishing Dr. Smith's geology, we render completely abortive every attempt to found or support antiscriptural, irrational, and unphilosophical geology ; (for no man will ever labour more earnestly, and few with greater ability, and less disingenuity, (p.484,) for he has leftno stone unturned;) and have, therefore, completely proved that the Bible is eternally true, and geology an imposture. We fearlessly affirm the Bible to be true, in its plain meaning and intent, without the aid of philology, or Biblical criticism; and, like Dr. Smith against The Rev. Henry Cole, we solemnly protest against either of these tools touching the charter of our salvation, with the intent to bend it to, or harmonize it with, any science, (Exod. xx. 25; Deut. xxvii. 5.) The Scriptures must be their own interpreter. Alas! every labouring, heavy-laden sinner, cannot attend the useless class of Dr. Robert Lee; and if he could, perhaps he would be turned away from the strait gate, (Matth. vii. 13; Luke xiii. 24,) should the Government Professor not be able, or willing, to direct to it, and how to enter it. Perhaps there would have been no great loss, though David Buchanan, Easter Muckcroft, and his spirited son, Alexander, of Whitehill, and the brave people in Chryston, bad kept Dr. Robert Lee, and his magnanimous co-presbyters, on the 24th January, 1839, and fed them with bread of affliction, and with water of affliction, (1 Kings xxii. 27,) till their hairs were grown like eagle's feathers, and their nails like bird's claws, (Dan. iv. 33.) We cannot exactly give their

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