The Christian.
IN
N dawn of life she wisely sought her God,

And the straight path of thorny virtue trod;
In bloom of beauty humbly turn'd aside,
The incense flatt'ry offer'd to her pride.
In others' griefs a tender part she bore,
And all the needy shar'd her little store;
Fond to oblige, too gentle to offend,
Belov’d by all, to all the good a friend :
The bad she censur'd by her life alone,
Blind to their faults, severe upon her own.
At distance view'd the world with pious dread,
And to God's temple for protection fled;
There sought that peace which Heav'n alone can

give, And learn'd to die ere others learn to live.

ANON

The Pure in Heart shall Meet Again.
IF yon bright stars which gem the night

Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred spirits reunite,

Whom death has torn asunder here;
How sweet it were at once to die,

And leave this blighted orb afar-
Mixed soul with soul, to cleave the sky,

And soar away from star to star.

But, O! how dark, how drear, how lone

Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one,

We fail'd to find the loved of this ! If there no more the ties should twine,

Which death's cold hand alone can sever, Ah! then these stars in mockery shine,

More hateful, as they shine for ever. It cannot be! each hope and fear

That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere

Than this bleak world that holds us now! There is a voice which sorrow hears,

When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers, "Dry thy tears : The pure in heart shall meet again!”

WILLIAM LEGGETT.

The Poor Man's Day. BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day; On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's

cold And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree: But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God, -not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently
With covered face, and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven

may
be one Sabbath without end.

JAMES GRAHAME.

Turning to God. IF, gracious God, in life's green, ardent year,

A thousand times thy patient love I tried ; With reckless heart, with conscience hard and

sere, Thy gifts perverted, and thy power defied; O, grant me, now that wintry snows appear Around my brow, and youth's bright promise

hide, Grant me with reverential awe to hear Thy holy voice, and in thy word confide!

Blot from my book of life its early stain !
Since days misspent will never more return,
My future path do thou in mercy trace;
So cause my soul with pious zeal to burn,
That all the trust, which in thy name I place,
Frail as I am, may not prove wholly vain !

PIETRO BEMBO, Trans. ANON.

Thy Will be Bone !
THY
HY will be done! O heavenly King,

I bow my head to thy decree;
Albeit my soul not yet may wing

Its upward flight, great God, to thee!

Though I must still on earth abide,

To toil, and groan, and suffer here, To seek for peace on sorrow's tide,

And meet the world's unfeeling jeer.

When heaven seemed dawning on my view

And I rejoiced my race was run,
Thy righteous hand the bliss withdrew;

And still I say, “Thy will be done !"

And though the world can never more

A world of sunshine be to me, Though all my fairy dreams are o’er,

And Care pursues where'er I flee;

Though friends I loved—the dearest—best,

Were scattered by the storm away, And scarce a hand I warmly pressed

As fondly presses mine to-day : Yet must I live-must live for those

Who mourn the shadow on my brow, Who feel my hand can soothe their woes,

Whose faithful hearts I gladden now. Yes, I will live-live to fulfil

The noble mission scarce begun, And pressed with grief to murmur still, All Wise! All Just! “ Thy will be done!”

ANNA CORA MOWATT.

The Hours are Viewless Angels.
THE hours are viewless angels,

That still go gliding by,
And bear each minute's record up

To Him who sits on high;
And we, who walk among them,

As one by one departs,
See not that they are hovering

For ever round our hearts.
Like summer-bees, that hover

Around the idle flowers,
They gather every act and thought,

Those viewless angel-hours;