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which thorow the holy goost sent down frō heaue haue preached vnto you the thynges which the angels delyte to beholde.

Wherefore gyrde up the loynes of your mynde, be sober, and trust perfectly on the grace that is brought vnto you, by the declarynge of Jesus Christ, as obediet chyldre, not fashionyng your selues to youre olde lustes of ignoraunce, but as he which hath called you is holy, eue so be ye holy also in all youre conuersacyon: for it is wrytten : Be ye holy, for I am holy.'

ROMANS XI. 1-6.

I say the: Hath god thrust out his people? God forbyd, for I also am an Israelit, of the sede of Abraham out of the trybe of Ben Jamin. God hathe not thruste out his people, whom he knewe before. Or wote ye not what the scripture sayeth of Elyas, how he maketh intercessio vnto God against Israell, and sayeth: LORDE, they haue slayne thy prophetes, and dygged downe thyne altares, Aud I am lefte ouer onely, and they seke my lyfe? But what sayeth the answere of God vnto him? I haue reserued vnto me seuen thousand men, which haue not bowed their knee before Baall. Euen so goeth it now at this tyme also with this remnaunt after the eleccion of grace. Yf it be done of grace, then is it not of deseruynge: els were grace no grace. But if it be of deseruig, the is grace nothing: els were deseruynge no deseruynge.'

Art. IX. 1. The Christian Keepsake for 1836. Edited by the Rev.

William Ellis. Price 15s. in silk.

2. Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book for 1836. 4to. £1 ls.

CHRISTMAS presents in September! The Winter Annuals

flowering before leaves have begun to turn yellow! Surely the years whirl round rapidly enough without having their end antedated. We do not like to have MDCCCXXXVI. staring us in the face, before we have had our Autumn's ramble with his predecessor. Such were our first thoughts on being surprised with these elegant volumes; but our gathering frowns were smoothed the moment we opened them. Truly, Messrs. Fisher, Son, and Jackson, you deserve well of the public; for a more admirably chosen and delightful series of plates, than the embellishments of the Christian Keepsake, we have never seen in any former Annual; which is saying a great deal. A portrait of the Princess Victoria, to whom the volume is dedicated, fronts the vignette title-page. Next comes Dr. Morrison with his two Chinese translators-a groupe of portraits possessing the highest kind of interest, and exquisitely engraved. Then, good old Wilberforce, to the very life; one of the most successful and characteristic portraits we ever beheld; one is never tired of

looking at it and conversing with it. Then we have portraits of Mr. Buxton, Mrs. Fry, and Mahommed Ali, a Persian convert. Among the landscapes, are Views of Antioch, Nazareth, the Cedars of Lebanon, Canton, Scene in South Africa, an Interior of the Holy Sepulchre, and a very beautiful scene illustrative of a passage in the Pilgrim's Progress, by an artist to whose merits we shall take another opportunity of doing justice. The whole collection is of the first order. But we must now hasten to lay before our readers a few specimens of the contents. The volume is rich in poetry, and the following stanzas are worthy of a place in the Missionary Annual, for their beauty of sentiment as well as genuine pathos.

THE GRAVE OF THE MISSIONARY.

'He rests not where the solemn yew
Bends o'er the marble tomb,
And death seems deadlier in the hue
Of still and sacred gloom.

He rests not where the holy pile
Repeats, through chancel dim,
And hollow vaults, and pillar'd aisle,
The slow-resounding hymn.

He sleeps not where his fathers sleep
Amid the hamlet's graves;

Where chimes the dull brook, softly deep,

And long dark heather waves.

But where the sparkling southern isles
Midst pearl and coral lie,

He bore this earth's most earthless toils,
And laid him down to die.

The mildest tropic airs fan round

The palm that shades his rest,

And the richest verdure lines the ground
That

presses on his breast.

And there the sun, through scented glooms
Slants his departing beam,

And the heron laves its azure plumes
In the bright adjacent stream.

And there the Deep's low, rolling tone

Is heard when the stars are bright;
When the breeze is low, and men are gone
To the cradling dreams of night.

'No dirge was breathed along the vale,
As his palless bier passed on;

No flowers were strewn, and the spicy gale
Had nought of sigh or moan.

VOL. XIV.-N.S.

X X

'No words were said, as dust to dust
They lowered him from the day;
They rear'd above no sculptured bust,
And they coffined not his clay.

'But conchs, and frantic howls, and yells
Ring through the twilight air;

And they cast their plumes and dazzling shells Upon the matted bier.

'Far had he come; with storm and care

His anxious soul had striven.

But can the spirit feel despair,

Whose hopes know God and Heaven?

'O'er his father land another sky Hung in the hours of sleep,

The strong winds of that shore rushed high,
With a louder, stormier sweep.

But he loved his tranquil southern home,
He loved its musky breeze;
He loved its hills of feathery bloom,
And its thick, luxuriant trees.

'He loved the fierce and swarthy men,
Though oft their dark, proud eyes
Flashed, fire-like, in the murky glen,
At bloody revelries.

Lone had he come-no sword or targe
Hung glittering at his side;

He spake not of the rampant charge,
Of warfare loud and wide.

He had come to calm the lustful heart,
To stem the passions strong,

To teach a loftier, nobler part,

Than the fight-the feast-the song.

His tone was mild, his eye was calm,
As day by day he taught,
Beneath the dusky-shading palm,
The hope of holy thought.

'Stern were those warriors, stern and proud,

But their pride relaxed to hear

The truths that from his warm heart glowed, Fervent, but unsevere.

At length, on one mild, tranquil eve,

In the glittering moon of flowers,

His spirit took its last, long leave
Of these beloved bowers.

But oh! he left the hope behind,

That feels not blood or clay,
That asks no murmur from the wind,
No life-beam from the day.

'And many an olive brow shall come,
And, bending o'er him, hear
His spirit uttering in the gloom
The voice of song and prayer.'

FRIENDS LOST IN EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE.

By the Rev. H. F. LYTE, A.M.

'Gone?-have ye then gone?

The good, the beautiful, the kind, the dear?
Passed to your glorious rest so swiftly on,

And left me weeping here?

'I gaze on yon bright track,

I hear your voices lessening as ye go.
Have ye no sign, no solace, to fling back
To us who toil below?

They hear not my faint cry,

Beyond the range of sense for ever flown.
I see them melt into eternity,

And feel I am alone.

To the high haven passed,

They anchor far above the skaith of ill,
While the stern billow and the reckless blast
Are mine to cope with still.

"Oh! from that land of love,

Look ye not sometimes on this world of wo?
Think ye not, dear ones, in bright bowers above,
Of those ye left below?

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ye

not loathe-not spurn

The worms of clay, the slaves of sense and will?
When
ye from God and glory earthward turn,

Oh! can ye love us still?

'Or have rather now
ye

Drunk of His Spirit whom ye worship there;
Who stripped the crown of glory from his brow,
The platted thorns to wear?

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Is it a fair fond thought,

That you may

still our friends and guardians be;

And Heaven's high ministry by you be wrought
With objects low as me?

May we not sweetly hope,

That you around our path and bed may dwell?
And shall not all our blessings brighter drop
From hands we loved so well?

'Shall we not feel you near

In hours of danger, solitude, and pain,
Cheering the darkness, drying off the tear,
And turning loss to gain?

Shall not your gentle voice

Break on temptation's dark and sullen mood,
Subdue our erring will, o'errule our choice,
And win from ill to good?

Oh yes! to us, to us,

A portion of our converse shall be given!
Struggling affection still would hold you thus,
Nor yield you all to Heaven!

'Lead our faint steps to God;

Be with us while the desert here we roam;
Teach us to tread the path which you bave trod,
To find with you our home!'

There is an interesting memoir of Dr. Morrison, but we must pass it over to detach a few anecdotes from the Recollections of Wilberforce.

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Upon his religious habits, the mind of the writer of these recollections delights to dwell. He was a Christian indeed. The elevated and consistent tone of spiritual piety which he maintained during the whole course of his hurried public life, was sustained by much private prayer, by a religious observation of the rest of the Sabbath, and by study of the Scriptures. His remarks in his family devotions, on the passages which he read, were generally attractive, new, striking, practical, and in harmony with the spirit of the sacred book. The writer has seen the Bible which he used in private, the margins were crowded with annotations, references, critical emendations, and marks, all in pencil, and evidently the work of reference and love for the sacred book. I remember his expositions dwelt much on the topics of gratitude to God for redemption, of the debt of love we owe, of the happiness of religion, and the misery of a life of sin.

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'It required some management to draw him out in conversation. And the nearer you observed him, the more the habit of his mind appeared obviously to be modest and lowly. And, therefore, some of those who only saw him once might go away disappointed. But if he

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