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And earth and ocean seem'd to say “ Our beauties are but for a day!”

I prais’d the sun, whose chariot rolld
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I prais'd the moon, whose softer eye
Gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky!
And moon and sun in answer said,
• Our days of light are numbered !”.

O God! O good beyond compare!
If thus Thy meaner works are fair!
If thus Thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be
Where Thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee !

HEBER.

THE STORMY PETREL. *

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea ;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast :
The sails are scatter'd about like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ;
The mighty cables and iron chains,
The hull which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down !
From the base of the wave to the billows' crown,
Amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The stormy petrel finds a home;

• Is considered by sailors as the forerunner of a tempest.

A home,- if such a place can be
For her who lives on the wide wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and teach them to spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O’er the deep! o'er the deep! Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish

sleep!
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The petrel telleth her tale in vain:
For the mariner curseth the warning bird,
Who bringeth him news of the storm unheard :
Ah! thus does the prophet of good or ill
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still;
Yet, he never falters ;—so, petrel ! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing.

BARRY CORNWALL.

PARTING WORDS.

GENESIS, XXXII. 26.

Let me go, the day is breaking,

Dear companions, let me go;
We have spent a night of waking

In the wilderness below;
Upward now I bend my way,
Part we here at break of day.

Let me go,

not tarry,

soul to carry

I

may
Wrestling thus with doubts and fears ;
Angels wait

my
Where my risen Lord appears ;
Friends and kindred, weep not so,
If ye love me, let me go.

We have travellid long together,

Hand in hand, and heart in heart, Both through fair and stormy weather

And 'tis hard - 'tis hard to part, Yet we must :

“ Farewell!” to you, Answer, one and all, “ Adieu !”

'Tis not darkness gathering round me,

Which withdraws me from your sight;
Walls of flesh no more can bound me,

But, translated into light,
Like the lark on mounting wing,
Though unseen, you hear me sing.

Heaven's broad day hath o'er me broken,

Far beyond earth's span of sky; Am I dead ? — Nay, by this token,

Know that I have ceas'd to die : Would

you

solve the mystery, Come up hither, come and see.

J. MONTGOMERY.

MISSIONARY HYMN.

From Greenland's icy mountains,

From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand ;
From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes,

Blow soft o'er Ceylon's * isle,
Though every prospect pleases,

And only man is vile :
In vain, with lavish kindness,

The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen, in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone.

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high,
Can we to man benighted

The lamp of life deny ?
Salvation! Oh, salvation !

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd 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 sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss return to reign!

HEBER.

PATRIOTISM.

BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own,- my native land !

• The fragrance of the cinnamon groves of Ceylon is pero ceptible nine leagues off at sea.

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand !
If such there breathe, go, mark him well :
For him no minstrel raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.-
O Caledonia ! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand!

SCOTT,

PRAYER.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,

Unutter'd or exprest;
The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burden of a sigh,

The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech

That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach

The Majesty on high,

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