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And when I pray that thou wouldst change my soul,
I would myself the means, and way control;
Still to the world with strong desires I burn,
Still on its joys my longing eyes I turn,—
But still-for ever so, I would not live,
I ask, and wilt thou not, my Father, give
A new heart, glowing with obedient love,
Its passions, hopes, and wishes fixed above:
Finding below no perfect resting place,
Panting to run and win the heavenly race,
With an unfaltering faith, and steadfast eyes,
Keeping in view the high, the glorious prize;
Willing with patience at thy call to bear
The cross of sorrow, or the thorn of care,
Resigning all I have at thy command,
My health, my joys, my life into thy hand!
Thy promise let me prove with firm belief,
Then let them come, wo, sorrow, sickness, grief,
Like a fierce torrent-I shall feel the shock
Harmless as tempests beating on a rock ;-
Or if the softening showers of good abound
As after rain upon the summer ground,

Rich fruits, in ripe luxuriance, there are found;
So shall my heart, when cheer'd with joy from Thee,
Be mov'd to lowly deeds of Charity.

Content in every state, I shall not dread

The hour when it must mingle with the dead;
Then calmly waiting for the promised rest,
All things that happen I shall know are best,
And so the remnant of my dying days

Will pass away in joyful songs of praise!

T. M. B


Suggested by FULLER'S account of the venerable BEDE and his Secretary translating the last verses of St. John's Gospel.

Look on that boy, and saintly pale old man!

Upon the holy text their eyes are bent;
With what divine expression, how intent,
The open roll how eagerly they scan!
But now the old man speaks in faltering tone,

He seems to swoon, films overspread his eyes

"Rouse thee, my master, rouse thee," the boy cries,
"There's yet but a few lines, the task is done."--
Thereat the old man musters a strong heart,
And to the blessed roll applies once more,
As if he knew he might not yet depart,

He might not go till his great task was done.
Thou, christian lab'rer, shalt immortal be,
Till thou hast done what God appoints to thee.

E. L. A.


SEE how on yonder ruin high

The silent moonbeams fall,
Tracing against the distant sky
Pillar, and tow'r, and wall.

The ivy round its arms has thrown,
Time's ravages to hide,

And lends the pile a grace unknown

To days of former pride.

And see, beneath the moonbeams bright,
On the smooth turf portray'd,
That window's form in silv'ry light,

With frame of carved shade.

Ah! thought has borne me back again,
Through many a changing year;
And bids once more the sacred fane
In wonted state appear.

Once more, in accents clear and loud,
Resounds the choral hymn;

I see the incense-bearing cloud
The arched roof bedim.

And yet, believe not I would seek

Those splendours to restore;
Although the muse may love to speak
Fondly of days of yore.

Here superstition dwelt of old,

And luxury, and pride,

Vont with a dazzling veil of gold,

Religion's form to hide.

Here in his cell the monk alone,
'While all around him slept,
Sigh'd for the joys he once had known,
Thought of his vow, and wept.

The captive bird at first repines,
And strikes with useless wing
The prison that her flight confines,
Nor will her wild notes sing.

Soon she forgets the forest tree,
Where she her nest had set;
And chants again her song with glee,
Man cannot thus forget.

But what forbids our worship now?
The sky is o'er our head;
Beneath that temple let us bow,
The temple God has made.

His ear the pray'r of faith will hear,
His grace the suppliant own,
On the dark wave, in desert drear,
Or mid these ruins lone.

For wealth may not His love secure,

Nor shrines of costly art,

Who seeks alike from rich and poor,

A humble contrite heart.

N. N.


"Let Israel rejoice in Him that made him; let the Children of Zion be joyful in their King."---Psalm cxlix. 2.

YE new-born souls rejoice,

In Jesu's name be glad ;

The people of Jehovah's choice

Should surely not be sad.

Why do your spirits faint?

Why do your heads hang down?

Why of the cross indulge complaint,

Forgetful of the crown?

Why on the willows hang

Your silent harps unstrung?

Why should the notes that David sang,

Remain by you unsung?

The gospel brings good news
For ev'ry contrite mind;
Will you ungraciously refuse
The boon for you design'd?

Think of your high estate,
Your royal dignity;

Look out of time, and contemplate

Your glorious destiny.

Things present all are yours,

Yours richly to enjoy ;

And while eternal life endures,

Pleasures without alloy.

A covenant God's your guard,

From ev'ry ill in time;

And your exceeding great reward,

In yon celestial clime.

But do you hesitate

This privilege to claim?

And fear 'tis not your happy state,
Though still your constant aim?
O'tis the tempter vile,

Who thus destroys your peace;

And with malignant, hellish guile,
Defrauds you of your bliss.

Reject his hateful lies,

His base suggestions spurn;
And from his impious fallacies

With pure abhorrence turn.

With holy boldness wield

The gospel armour well;
With faith's impenetrable shield,
His fiery darts repel.

Upon your watch-tower stand,

Your Captain's grace implore;

There's fulness in his heart and hand,

Ask, and He'll give you more.

In his resistless might,

The fight of faith maintain;

You'll quickly put the foe to flight,

And more than vict'ry gain.

Look up,-your fears dismiss,
Jehovah fights for you;

The battle is not yours, but His,

And His the glory too.

TO **


WEARY pilgrim! child of sorrow,
Sighing that thy race were done,
Still thou must with weeping follow
Many a slowly, setting sun-
Ere thou canst rest thy trembling feet,
Where earth's still sons in silence meet.

Thy path is rough, and lonely too,
The sky is dull above thee,

Thy sunshine days are short and few,

And here are none who love thee.
Well may'st thou drop the bitter tear,
O solitary traveller!

Here a stranger! hoping, fearing,
To behold thy destin'd rest;
When at last the bourn's appearing
Let full joy inspire thy breast.
Rejoice! thou much distressed one,
Thy portion'd ground is nearly run.


ACCEPT this holy book, of books the best,
Thy guide to honor, happiness, and rest;
Obey its precepts, and its truths revere,
And to its counsels lend a willing ear;
It points to Jesus, to the sinner's friend,


Thy hope in time, thy bliss when time shall end. IGDALIA.


In Battle Church, on John Wythines, Dean of Battle, Sussex, 42 years.
Obiit Mar. 18, 1615. E. 84.

Vixi dum volui, volui dum Christe volebas,
Nec mihi vita brevis, nec mihi longa fuit;
Vivo tibi, moriorq: tibi; Tibi Christe resurgam,
Mortuus et vivus Sum maneoq: tuus.

(Translations in verse are requested.)

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