Or if 'tis e'er denied thee In solitude to pray, Should holy thoughts come o'er thee E'en then the silent breathing THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky, Refulgent with celestial dew. O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow, And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile, And far reflect the lovely glow Where ocean's waves incessant toil. See where the scattered tribes return; And purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strength: New cities bloom along the plain, New temples to Jehovah rise, The kindling voice of praise again, Pours its sweet anthems to the skies. The fruitful fields again are blest, The bloody sacrifice no more Shall smoke upon the altars high,But ardent hearts from hill to shore, Send grateful incense to the sky! The jubilee of man is near, When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign; He comes to wipe the mourner's tear, And cleanse the heart from sin and pain. The king that ransomed you from woe; FUTURE HOPES. THERE is an untold something, dwelling Which seems to whisper, softly telling It bids us seek some other region, So that, when friend from friend must sever, Some cheering voice may tell, They part, but do not part for ever,”— G. BEDDOW. SCOTLAND. O CALEDONIA! stern and wild, That knits me to thy rugged strand. SCOTT. O SCOTLAND! much I love thy tranquil dales; To commune with his God in secret prayer; GRAHAME. TO IRELAND. Written on occasion of the Gospel being first preached in a Chapel in the native Irish tongue. ERIN Mavourneen! oh, when wilt thou rise From the torpor of death that has bound thee? The veil of delusion is cast o'er thine eyes, Thy children are weeping around thee ! Strangers unholy have long been thy lords, Erin Mavourneen! the Day-Star shall shine, Erin Mavourneen! the bosoms that mourn, To thee let the triumph be given, To roll the full tones of thy harping along, And swell the devotions of Heaven. CHARLOTTE EILZABETH. FIELD FLOWERS. YE Field Flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you ; For ye waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight, Like treasures of silver and gold. I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, Even now, what affections the violet awakes; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, |