But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone;

As an angel's wing, through an opening cloud,
Is seen, and then withdrawn.

The Pilgrim exile-sainted name!-
The hill whose icy brow

Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame,
In the morning's flame burns now.

And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night
On the hill-side and the sea,

Still lies where he laid his houseless head;
But the pilgrim, where is he?

The pilgrim fathers are at rest :

When the summer's throned on high,

And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed,
Go stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day

On that hallowed spot is cast:

And the evening sun, as he leaves the world,
Looks kindly on that spot last.

The pilgrim spirit has not fled:

It walks in noon's broad light:

And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the holy stars, by night.

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled,
And shall guard his ice-bound shore,

Till the waves of the bay where the May-Flower lay,

Shall foam and freeze no more.

JOHN PIERPOINT.

A

The Stranger and his Friend.

POOR wayfaring man of grief

Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,

That I could never answer, "Nay."
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither He went, or whence He came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love,-I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered;-not a word He spake ;-
Just perishing for want of bread,

I gave Him all; He blessed it, brake,
And ate;-but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.

I spied Him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mocked his thirst:

He heard it, saw it hurrying on:

I ran to raise the sufferer up;

Thrice from the stream He drained my cup,
Dipt, and returned it running o'er;

I drank, and never thirsted more.

'Twas night; the floods were out,—it blew A winter hurricane aloof;

I heard his voice abroad, and flew

To bid Him welcome to my roof;

warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest;
Laid Him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden's garden while I dreamed.

Stript, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found Him by the highway side;
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; He was healed;
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace bound up my broken heart.

In prison I saw Him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honoured Him midst shame and scorn:
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,

He asked if I for Him would die;

The flesh was weak, my blood run chill,

But the free spirit cried, "I will.”

Then in a moment to my view,

The stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in his hands I knew,

My Saviour stood before mine eyes:
He spake; and my poor name He named,

"Of Me thou hast not been ashamed,
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

The Voice of God.

WHERE is Thy favour'd haunt, eternal Voice,

The region of Thy choice,

Where, undisturb'd by sin and earth, the soul Owns Thy entire control ?—

'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and high, When storms are hurrying by:

'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of the earth, Where torrents have their birth.

No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,

Mar the full burst of

prayer;

Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,

And round us and beneath

Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep
Of winds across the steep,

Through wither'd bents-romantic note and clear,
Meet for a hermit's ear,-

The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry,
And, scarcely heard so high,

The dashing waters when the air is still
From many a torrent rill

That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,
Track'd by the blue mist well;

Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart
For Thought to do her part.

'Tis then we hear the voice of GOD within, Pleading with care and sin:

"Child of My love! how have I wearied thee?

66

'Why wilt thou err from Me?

"Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, "Parted the drowning waves,

"And set My saints before thee in the way, "Lest thou shouldst faint or stray?

"What? was the promise made to thee alone? "Art thou th' excepted one?

"An heir of glory without grief or pain? "O vision false and vain!

"There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow; "It fits thy stature now: "Who scornful pass it with averted eye, ""Twill crush them by and by.

"Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure, "Of thine eternal treasure;

"The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought, "The world for thee was bought,

And as this landscape broad-earth, sea, and

"So all God does, if rightly understood,

"Shall work thy final good."

JOHN KEBLE.

The Reality of Faith.

THY triumphs, Faith, we need not take
Alone from the blest martyr's stake;

In scenes obscure no less we see
That Faith is a reality;