are guided, and be the honored instruments of diffusing those blessings which we ourselves enjoy, through every land where our will is law, through every tribe where our wisdom is held in reverence, and in every distant isle which our winged vessels visit? If we value, then (as who does not value?) our renown among mankind; if we exult (as who can help exulting?) in the privileges which the providence of God has conferred on the British nation; if we are thankful (and God forbid we should be otherwise) for the means of usefulness in our power; and if we love (as who does not love?) our native land, its greatness and prosperity, let us see that we, each of us in our station, are promoting, to the best of our power, by example, by exertion, by liberality, by the practice of Christian justice and every virtue, the extension of God's truth among men, and the honor of that holy name whereby we are called. There have been realms before as famous as our own, and (in relation to the then extent and riches of the civilized world), as powerful and as wealthy, of which the traveller sees nothing now but ruins in the midst of a wilderness, or where the mariner only finds a rock for fishers to spread their nets. Nineveh once reigned over the east; but where is Nineveh now? Tyre had once the commerce of the world; but what is become of Tyre? But if the repentance of Nineveh had been persevered in, her towers would have stood to this day. Had the daughter of Tyre brought her gifts to the Temple of God, she would have continued a queen forever.

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

Life bears us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our boat, at first, glides down the narrow channel, through the playful murmuring of the little brook and the winding of its grassy border. The trees shed their blossoms over our young heads, the flowers on the brink seem to offer themselves to our young hands; we are happy in hope, and we grasp eagerly at the beauties around us-but the stream hurries on, and still our hands are empty.

Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the moving picture of enjoyment and industry passing before us; we are excited by some short-lived disappointment. The stream bears us on, and our joys and our griefs are alike left behind us. We may be shipwrecked, but we cannot be delayed; whether rough or smooth, the river hastens towards its home, till

the roar of the ocean is in our ears, and the tossing of its waves is beneath our feet, and the land lessens from our eyes, and the floods are lifted up around us, and we take our leave of earth and its inhabitants, until of our further voyage there is no witness save the Infinite and Eternal.

The poems of Bishop Heber, though not distinguished for any great vigor or originality, are certainly very chaste, elegant, and pleasing. Many of his hymns have been favorites in the Christian church among all denominations; for, while they possess all the simplicity and true Christian feeling which should characterize such compositions, they have more elevation and poetic fervor than is usually met with in our sacred lyrics. As has been justly said, "they breathe a fervent devotion in the most poetical language and short melodious verse."

PALESTINE.

Reft of thy sons, amid thy foes forlorn,

Mourn, widow'd queen! forgotten Sion, mourn!
Is this thy place, sad city, this thy throne,
Where the wild desert rears its craggy stone?
While suns unbless'd their angry lustre fling,

And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring?
Where now thy pomp, which kings with envy view'd?
Where now thy might, which all those kings subdued?
No martial myriads muster in thy gate,

No suppliant nations in thy temple wait,

No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among,
Wake the full lyre, and swell the tide of song;
But lawless Force, and meagre Want are there,
And the quick-darting eye of restless Fear,
While cold Oblivion, 'mid thy ruins laid,
Folds his dank wing beneath the ivy-shade.

THE ISRAELITES DELIVERED FROM THEIR OPPRESSORS.

Oh! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood

In trustless wonder by the avenging flood!

Oh! welcome came the cheerful morn, to show
The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below!
The mangled limbs of men-the broken car-
A few sad relics of a nation's war;
Alas, how few! Then, soft as Elim's well,
The precious tears of new-born freedom fell.
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 sobbed 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 throbbed in Miriam's breast.
She, with bare arms, and fixing on the sky

The dark transparence of her lucid eye,

Poured 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 martial thunder rang,
And loud and far their stormy chorus spread-
"Shout, Israel, for the Lord hath triumphed!"

Palestine.

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, perhaps, 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, sandal'd with the storm!
A western cloud around his limbs is spread,
His crown a rainbow, and a sun his head.
To highest heav'n 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!
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!"

MISSIONARY HYMN.

From Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains

Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,

From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile:
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strown-
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,

Shall we to man benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O Salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learnt Messiah's name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,

Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

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;

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

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates
Nor wild Malwah 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!