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Mark, how its foamy spray,
Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes,

Mimics the bow of day
Arching in majesty the vaulted skies !

Thence in a summer shower,
Steeping the rocks around. O! tell me where

Could majesty and power
Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair ?

Yet lovelier, in my view,
The Streamlet, flowing silently serene ;

Traced by the brighter hue,
And livelier growth it gives, itself unseen!

It flows through flowery meads,
Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ;

Its quiet beauty feeds
The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.

Gently it murmurs by
The village churchyard ; its low, plaintive tone,

A dirge-like melody,
For worth and beauty modest as its own.

More gaily now it sweeps
By the small school house, in the sunshine bright;

And o'er the pebbles leaps,
Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,
In characters which they who run may read,

The charms of gentleness,
Were but its still small voice allowed to plead ?

What are the trophies gained
By power, alone, with all its noise and strife,

To that meek wreath, unstained,
Won by the charities that gladden life ?

Niagara's streams might fail,
And human happiness be undisturbed :

But Egypt would turn pale,
Were her still Nile's o’erflowing bounty curbed !

BERNARD BARTON. THE GOOD CONFESSION.

The voice of my Saviour I hear,

The voice of his mercy and love,
Too long I have lingered I fear,

Forgetting the pleasures above.
Too long has the world had my heart,

Too long has its thraldom enslaved,
And, now from its love I would part,

It tells me, I cannot be saved !

The words seem so fearfully true,

That often I sadly exclaim, For me there's no heaven in view,

And me there is none to reclaim : Though trials without and within,

Have told that the world is no rest, My heart so polluted with sin,

Cannot look for the joys of the blest !

Yet now is the message conveyed,

In fulness of mercy to me,
Which tells how a ransom was paid,

On purpose that I should be free;
Which points to the Lamb on the throne -

That Lamb was the ransom indeed, Who died for my sins to atone,

And lives for my rescue to plead !

And now that the music of bliss,

Dispels the dark vision of woe, For mercy so boundless as this,

What grateful return can I show ? Shall I shrink from avowing the love

Whose frequent pulsations I feel, Or, ashamed of my Saviour above,

His visit of mercy conceal ?

Ah, no! I will gladly avow

What things He has done for my soul, And then with his people below,

I'll hasten my name to enrol;

When death's shades are stealing
Over every feeling,

Sweet music bring,
Let no bitter tears be shed,
Gently kneel around

my

bed And soft notes sing.

Brighton.

H. M. W.

“ LOVEST THOU ME?"
Youth! amid thy dreams of joy,
Grasping earth's impure alloy ;
Twining wreaths of fairy flowers,
As to cheat time's fleeting hours;
Know'st thou that thine hours are hasting

As the sunset hues away?
Life's pure waters art thou tasting ?

Lovest thou thy Saviour,--say?
Manhood ! with thy brow of thought
Musing on thy hidden lot;
Girt with life's bewildering cares,
Circled by a thousand snares:
Know'st thou that thy days are numbered

By the Lord of earth and sea ?
Hath thy spirit erewhile slumbered !

Hear thy Saviour—" Lov'st thou me ?”
ge! with snows of hoary years,
Eyes bedimmed with sorrow's tears ;
Palsied frame, and quivering breath,
Brow with furrowed lines of death :
Hath thy life's brief sojourn parted

As the rainbow's vision gay ?
Scarce on high one deep thought darted ?

Lovest thou thy Saviour-say?
Spirit! born no more to die,
Linked with immortality ;
Denizen of bliss or woe,
Doomed eternal life to know :
Mid earth’s fleeting, passing things,

Joys and griefs of time's brief hour,
Drink, O drink heaven's purer springs !

Life's free fountain is thy dower!
Stoney Hill, Jamacia.

ADELINE.

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