riefs, allays my fears,

nd treasures up my tears. ld tempt my soul to stray ly wisdom's narrow way; od I would pursue, ng I would not do; felt temptation's power ne in that dang'rous hour. ove my bosom swell, hose I priz'd too well, pitying aid bestow, earth severer woe; ayed, denied, or fled, o shar'd his daily bread. thoughts within me rise, smayed, my spirit dies;

THE

the accursed tree, eding, who is Hie? so pale and dim, ood, and writhing limbwith scourges tornn of twisted thornso deeply pierced-d, burning thirst-ing death-dew'd brow'tis thou! 'tis thou! the accursed tree, wful, who is He? t noon-day pale,

Yet he who once vouchsaf'd to bear
The sickening anguish of despair,
Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry,
The throbing heart, the streaming eye.
When mourning o'er some stone I bend,
Which covers all that was a friend,
And from his voice, his hand, his smile,
Divides me for a little while,

Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed;
For thou did'st weep o'er Lazarus' dead.
And, oh! when I have safely past
Through every conflict But the last;
Still, still, unchanging, watch beside
My painful bed, for thou hast died;
Then point to realms of cloudless day,
And wipe the latest tear away.

cks, and rending veilit trembled at His dooniints who burst their tombmised, ere He died, at His sideppliant knees we bow, 'tis thou! 'tis thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He?
By the last and bitter cry,
The ghost given up in agony-
By the lifeless body laid

R. GRANT.

In the chambers of the dead-
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep-
Crucified, we know thee now,
Son of Man, 'tis thou! 'tis thou!
Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the prayer for them that slew,
Lord, they know not what they do-
By the spoiled and empty grave-
By the souls He died to save-
By the conquest He hath won-
By the saints before His throne-
By the rainbow round His brow-
Son of God, 'tis thou! 'tis thou.

lower that ever blow'd Calvary's tree, 'blood in rivers flow'd, f worthless me. ue, its sweetest smell, can declare;

MILMAN.

Nor can the tongue of angels tell
How bright the colours be.
But soon, on yonder banks above,
Shall every blossom here,
Appear a full-blown flower of love,
Like Him transplanted there.

land's icy mountains, a's coral strand; 's sunny fountains their golden sand. an ancient river, y a balmy plain, to deliver

I from error's chain. h the spicy breezes on Ceylon's isle, ry prospect pleases, man is vile,

In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strewn ; The heathen, in his blindness, Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high; Shall we, to man benighted, The lamp of life deny? Salvation! oh! salvation! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation

Has learnt Messiah's name.

Waft, waft ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;

Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinner's slain
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss return to reign.

I ask'd an aged man, a man of cares, Wrinkled and curv'd, and white with hoary hairs:

"Time is the warp of life," he said; "O tell The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!"

I ask'd the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled:
From the cold grave a hollow murmur
flow'd,-

"Time sow'd the seeds we reap. in this abode!"

I ask'd a dying sinner, ere the stroke Of ruthless death life's golden bowl had broke;

I ask'd him, What is time? "Time," he replied,

"I've lost it,-ah! the treasure!" and he died.

I ask'd the golden sun and silver spheres, Those bright chronometers of days and

HEBER.

And they replied, (no oracle more wise,) "Tis folly's blank, and wisdom's highest prize!"

I ask'd a spirit lost; but, oh! the shriek That pierc'd my soul! I shudder while I speak,

It cried, A particle, a speck, a mite Of endless years, duration infinite!" Of things inanimate, my dial I Consulted; and it made me this reply: "Time is the season fair of living well, The path to glory, or the path to hell 1 ask'd my Bible, and methinks it said, "Time is the present hour, the past is fled; Live, live to-day; to-morrow never yet On any human being rose or set." I ask'd old father Time himself, at last; But in a moment he flew swiftly past; His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind His noiseless steeds, that left no trace behind.

I ask'd the mighty angel, who shall stand One foot on sea, and one on solid land; "By heaven's great King, I swear the myst'ry's o'er!

Time was," he cried; "but time shall be no more!"

MARSDEN.

Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in and paid to night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,-
The flight is past, and man forgot.

KING.

Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle, so stern and grey
Dost thou its former pride recal,
Or ponder how it pass'd away ?

?

Before my breath, like smoking flax, Man and his marvels pass away; And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay.

So long enjoy'd, so oft misus'd; Alternate in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused.

While in my glass the sand grains shiver. And measureless thy joy and grief When time and thou shalt part for ever SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Short is the time of man below,
His time of weal and time of woe;
Few are the steps, and brief the space
Allotted for his earthly race.
The time is short to follow gain,
The time experience to attain,

To buy and sell, to plough and reap. To watch and toil, to rest and sleep. The time is short, then judge aright, And learn the lesson of its flight; For in that time, and that alone, Eternity is lost or won.

FEAR OF Not that from life and all its woes,

The hand of death shall set me free; Not that this heart shall then repose In the low vale most peacefully. Ah! when I touch time's farthest brink, A kinder solace must attend; It chills my very soul to think

On that dread hour when life must end.

GUARDIAN

Gently, gently fall, sweet sleep,
O'er thine eyelids soft and deep,
Gently as the breath of flowers
In the bright noon's honey'd hours.
Gently as the dews of heaven
On the wild rose at the even.
Thou art pure, immortal one,
Oh! be pure till life is done.
We would take thee in thy bloom,
From the dim walls of the tomb;
We would bear thee, blest and fair,
Where thy home and kindred are.

In vain the flattering verse may breathe,
Of ease from pain, and rest from strife:
There is a sacred dread of death
Inwoven with the strings of life.
This bitter cup at first was given
When angry justice frown'd severe;
And 'tis the eternal doom of heaven,
That man must view the grave with fear.
- BRYANT

OUR FATHERS,
Our fathers, where are they?
The prophets, do they live for ay?
Ask the fair and teeming earth,
Ask the lands that gave them birth.
The grass that springs at morning light
Is rudely cropp'd ere dewy night;
The flower that blooms in sunny vale
Is nipp'd by winter's chilling gale;
The oak that braves the tempest's shock
Is levell'd by the lightning's stroke.
Fair spring comes dancing, crown'd with
flowers;

Sweet summer sings in leafy bowers;
Wan autumn revels in the blast;
Old hoary winter trembles past.
What means the little grassy mound,
With flowerets deck'd and willow bound?

NOT LOST, BUT

Say, why should friendship grieve for those
Who safe arrive on Cañaan's shore?
Releas'd from all their hurtful foes,

They are not lost, but gone before.
How many painful days on earth
Their fainting spirits numbered o'er;
Now they enjoy a heavenly birth;

They are not lost, but gone before.
Dear is the spot where Christians sleep,
And sweet the strain which angels pour;
O why should we in anguish weep?
They are not lost, but gone before.

What the sculptured storied urn,
Whence oft with pensive heart we turn?
In Arab's waste, the mystic pile,
That wondering travellers oft beguile;
The sacred vaults of Eastern clime,
The statues' ruins, works sublime,
All tell the same unhidden tale,-
The prophets and our sires bewail;
These mark their graves, where, moulder-
ing, they

In silence wait Time's final day;
When, at the trumpet's quickening peal,
All systems from their spheres shall reel:
The living change, the dead arise,
And flames envelope earth and skies,
In fiery chariots God shall come,
And welcome His beloved home.

G. M. BELL.

GONE BEFORE.
Secure from every mortal care,
By sin and sorrow vexed no more;
Eternal happiness they share,

Who are not lost, but gone before.
To Zion's peaceful courts above,
In faith triumphant may we soar,
Embracing in the arms of love,

The friends not lost, but gone before. To Jordan's bank, whene'er we come, And hear the swelling waters roar, Jesus, convey us safely home,

To friends not lost, but gone before. ANON.