And he, whose hardened heart alike had borne
The house of bondage and the oppressor's scorn,
The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued,
In faltering accents sobb'd his gratitude,--
Till kindling into warmer zeal, around

The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound;
And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest,

The struggling spirit throbb'd in Miriam's breast.
She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky

The dark transparence of her lucid eye,

Pour'd on the winds of heaven her wild, sweet harmony.
"Where now," she sang, "the tall Egyptian spear?
On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where?
Above their ranks the whelming waters spread.
Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed!"
And every pause between, as Miriam sang,
From tribe to tribe the marshal thunder rang,
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread-
"Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphëd!"

THE RISE OF SALEM.

Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain,
And heroes lift the generous sword in vain.
Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll,
And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul.
Yet shall she rise;-but not by war restored,
Not built in murder ;-planted by the sword.
Yes, Salem, thou shalt rise: Thy Father's aid
Shall heal the wound his chastening hand has made,
Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway,
And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away.
Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring:
Break forth, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, sing!
No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn,
The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scorn:
The sultry sands shall tenfold harvests yield,
And a new Eden deck the thorny field.
E'en now, perchance, wide waving o'er the land,
The mighty Angel lifts his golden wand;
Courts the bright vision of descending power,
Tells every gate and measures every tower,
And chides the tardy seals that yet detain
Thy Lion, Judah, from his destined reign.

And who is He?. the vast, the awful form,
Girt with the whirlwind, sandall'd with the storm!
A western cloud around his limbs is spread,
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head.
To highest heaven he lifts his kingly hand,
And treads at once the ocean and the land;
And hark! his voice amid the thunder's roar,
His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more!
Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare,
Lo! thrones are set, and every saint is there!

Palestine.

Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway,
The mountains worship and the isles obey;
Nor sun nor moon they need-nor day nor night;
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light:
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come,
Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home?
On David's throne shall David's offspring reign,
And the dry bones be warm'd with life again.
Hark! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise;
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong:
"Worthy the Lamb! omnipotent to save,

Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!"

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

Lo, the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lesson, given

By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:

"Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!

64

Say, with richer crimson glows

The kingly mantle than the rose?

Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we, poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,

Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!

"One there lives, whose guardian eye

Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all,

Keeps our feathers lest they fall:

Pass we blithely then the time,

Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!"

TO HIS WIFE.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still;

On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor mild Mulwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!'

WHY STAND YE IDLE?

The God of glory walks his round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,

"No longer stand ye idle here!

"Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright,

Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear,

Waste not of hope the morning light!

Ah, fools! why stand ye idle here?

"Marriage is an institution calculated for a constant scene of as much delight as our being is capable of. Two persons who have chosen each other out of all the species, with design to be each other's mutual comfort and entertainment, have in that action bound themselves to be good-humored, affable, discreet, forgiving, patient, and joyful, with respect to each other's frailties and imperfections, to the end of their lives. The wiser of the two (and it always happens one of them is such) will, for her or his own sake, keep things from outrage with the utmost sanctity. When this union is thus preserved. (as I have often said,) the most indifferent circumstance administers delight. Their condition is an endless source of new gratifications. The married man can say, "If I am unacceptable to all the world beside, there is one whom I entirely love, that will receive me with joy and transport, and think herself obliged to double her kindness and caresses of me from the gloom with which she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the sorrow of my heart to be agreeable there; that very sorrow quickens her affection."-STEFLE, Spectator, No. 490.

"Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage
That wait on life's declining year,
Secure a blessing for your age,

And work your Maker's business here!
"And ye, whose locks of scanty gray
Foretell your latest travail near,
How swiftly fades your worthless day!
And stand ye yet so idle here?

"One hour remains, there is but one!
But many a shriek and many a tear
Through endless years the guilt must moan
Of moments lost and wasted here!"

Oh Thou, by all thy works adored,
To whom the sinner's soul is dear,
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord!

And grant us grace to please thee here!

ON THE DEATH OF HIS BROTHER.

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb!
Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom!
Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long;

But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking,

And the sound which thou heard'st was the Seraphim's song!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;

He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee,
And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!'

EPIPHANY.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid!

The following stanzas were written as an addition to the above hymn, by an English clergyman, on hearing of the decease of the author:

"Thou art gone to the grave! and whole nations bemoan thee,
Who caught from thy lips the glad tidings of peace:

Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall enthrone thee,
And ne'er shall thy name from their memories cease.

"Thou art gone to the grave! but thy work shall not perish-
That work which the Spirit of wisdom hath blest;

His strength shall sustain it, His comforts shall cherish,
And make it to prosper, though thou art at rest.”

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall!
Angels adore him in slumber reclining,

Maker and Monarch, and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine?

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gifts would his favor secure;
Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!

ROBERT POLLOK, 1799-1827.

IN 1827, the world was startled by the appearance of a new epic-a religious poem in blank verse, entitled, "The Course of Time," by Robert Pollok, a young clergyman of the Scottish Secession Church. Few works before ever became so rapidly and extensively popular. It was read with eagerness by all classes, and passed through numerous editions; and, by many, it was pronounced the finest poem that had appeared in our language since the Paradise Lost. Some even went so far as to claim for the author a genius and a power equal to Milton. This, of course, was extravagant. But, after the first excitement passed away, the literary world settled down in the well-matured conviction that the "Course of Time" is a poem of extraordinary power, and destined to live as long as the English language endures.

Robert Pollok, the son of a farmer in Renfrewshire,2 Scotland, was born in the year 1799. While a mere boy he was remarkably thoughtful, and from a very early age displayed a taste for the beauties of nature, and a capacity for enjoying them by no means common. After going through the ordinary preparatory stu

"The Course of Time' is a very extraordinary poem: vast in its conception-vast in its plan-vast in its materials-and vast, if very far from perfect, in its achievement. The wonderful thing is, indeed, that it is such as we find it, and not that its imperfections are numerous. It has nothing at all savoring of the little or conventional about it; for he passed at once from the merely elegant and graceful. With Young, Blair, and Cowper for his guides, his muse strove with unwearied wing to attain the high, severe, serene region of Milton; and he was at least successful in earnestness of purpose, in solemnity of tone, and in vigor and variety of illustration."-D. M. MOIR.

2 On the western coast of Scotland, due west from Edinburgh,