Oh, waste not now in vain regret,

The precious hours vouchsafed thee here.
Arouse! exert thyself, and let

The star of hope thy spirit cheer.

[Written on seeing the Monthly Rose in luxuriant bloom in November.]

When erst along these paths I strayed,
The verdant foliage cast its shade,
And the green arbour lent its seat,
To screen me from the summer heat.
'Mid the tall trees, full loud and long,
The feathered tribe attune their song;
And bright laburnums hung their wreath,
Mingled with lilac blooms beneath.

But now no blooms,-no foliage green,
Delight the eye,-adorn the scene:
The withering leaf falls thick and fast,
Before approaching Winter's blast ;
And tints of transient glory shed
On the scant foliage overhead,
Pourtray the pride of human years,—
Fading when brightest it appears.

But still beside my path a rose
In Summer beauty buds and blows:
And 'mid the withering foliage strown
Around it, and the wintry tone.
Of the chill breeze,-uprears its head,
-The living blooming o'er the dead;
Like Faith, when joys of earth are past,
Radiant and smiling to the last.

A little while, this rose shall fade:
Its honours all be lowly laid; :
And its fair bloom lie scattered round,
To strew this dank disfigured ground.
But Sharon's Rose no change can know,
In Summer's heat, in Winter's snow;
-Alike its bloom, in youth, and age,
Defying every tempest's rage.
Oh, let us make that Rose our own,
Ere Life's uncertain hour be flown!
A Saviour's mercy let us taste,
Amid the world's wide-spreading waste!
Though health,-though riches, honours fail,
Like withered leaves before the gale,
Redeeming Love shall brightly glow,
And glad this wilderness of woe.

THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOW.

WHY round the mast of anchored bark,
Why round the spire of sacred fane,

Or stately tree of sunny park,

Assembles now the swallow's train ?
The verdure still is on the plain,
The sky is with no tempest dark,
Nor wrath of wintry snows or rain
Upon the fields hath left its mark.
With summer heat still glows the air,
With blooming hues the gardens smile,
Why then, ye winged ones, prepare
To wander from our lovely Isle?

J. A. W.

Delay your flight a little while;
From councils of your journey cease;
With pleasure still your days beguile,
And nightly seek your haunts of peace.
No-no-an instinct in each breast
Impels the wanderers to flight

From scenes that cease to be their rest
That may no more their hearts delight.
Though now around them all is bright,
By prescient wisdom deep impressed,

Full well they feel a wintry night
Is stealing o'er these plains so blessed.
And taught of God, unknowing dread,
They now prepare o'er wastes to fly,
Where human foot may never tread,
Nor glance around the human eye.
O'er mighty oceans, surging high,
O'er sands in desert gloom outspread,

A dauntless band, they cleave the sky,
To fairer climes far onward led.

O Christian, shall they spread their wing,
Unheeded by thy thoughtful gaze,

And soar aloft in airy ring,

Nor shame within thy bosom raise?
Shall they despise these sunny ways,
Nor longer to their loved haunts cling,
And yet thy soul, 'mid vain delays,
Refuse above the earth to spring?
Soon, soon, however bright thy sky,
However fair and dear each scene,
The howling winter must draw nigh,
As if thy summer ne'er had been.
Though still the fields of life be green,
Haste, as thy fleeting moments fly!

Above thee smiles thy home serene,
Around-the sleeping tempests lie.

Torquay.

J. A. W.