THE following poem is put into the mouth of a dying Missionary, whose life has fallen a sacrifice to his exertions for the spread of Christianity in Africa. The truth of the circumstances supposed has been too frequently and sadly attested by experience. May the anticipations expressed be speedily approved by as certain but more cheering evidence! This Poem was inscribed to the President and Members of the Church Missionary Society; which contemplated amongst its first objects the amelioration of the spiritual condition of Africa; and to this it has steadily persevered in giving its best energies, under great difficulties and discouragements. ETHIOPIA STRETCHING OUT HER HANDS UNTO GOD. Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,- THE DYING POET'S HYMN. (MRS. HEMANS.) HATH the day broke? I heard a gentle warning The night is well-nigh spent! the glorious day's at hand! Death!-is this death, so sweetly stealing on? Death the Destroyer, Sin's portentous son? This he, who speeds on messages of wrath To me he comes with morning,—with the hour The sunshine floats around him like a vest, My wife! my precious wife! how well beloved, Time, peril, pain have long and sternly proved! It comes―the parting pang-it comes apace! Turn not those tear-worn eyes upon my face, Suing for leave to hope,—it may not be! My God-our God hath set the spirit free: Yet bleeds my human heart, and ill can bear Thy passive grief, thy calm and still despair; For many a night, albeit thou deem'dst me sleeping, I felt thy silent agony of weeping. Come, sit thee down beside me; let me rest My dying head upon thy gentle breast; Before the sunny hills of Westmoreland, Whose forms e'en now with heavenly visions blend, "In perils of the desert and the sea, |