MISSIONARY HYMN.-REV. XIV. 6.

M. A. BARBER.

FAR where the barren lands

Are whitening round the Pole,

And where on Tropic sands

The glistening waters roll,

Each kindred, people, race,

That sit in darkness, hear

The Gospel words of grace

Thrill through each opening ear.

Hark! in the heathen tongue

The word of God is read, The praise of Christ is sung,

The prayer of faith is said!

The soft Taheitan speech

Hath caught the joyful sound

On fair Owyhee's beach

Spreads the glad message rounů.

The Negro's willing feet

O'er many a hill have trod,

And many a plain, to meet
The messengers of God.

A voice round Brahma's fane

Hath shak'n the idol thereWhat is that gifted strain?

The voice of Christian prayer.

And thou, whose kindling thought Still counts each lingering hour, Till all the earth be brought

To own thy Saviour's powerPerchance thou canst not ask O'er lands and seas to roam; Thine is another task,

Thy mission is at home!

Is there no cottage near
Where never yet was heard,

In accents plain and clear,

The soul-awakening word?

'Mongst thine own people none

Still far from God and Heaven?

Beneath thy roof, not one

Unblest and unforgiven?

Oh, bid them come! still flows
The wave of life so pure-
The tree of life still grows,
For every wound a cure:
Pray for that moment's birth,
When sin and pain shall cease,

And all the tribes of earth

Sit 'neath that tree in peace!

(Original.)

TO A YOUNG LADY ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.

F. D.

AND weep'st thou, maiden, that thy mother's breast,
Long worn with care, is now at peace for ever,
That from her God and thine, the spirit blest,
Nor sin, nor bitterness, nor aught can sever?

Weep'st thou, that while 'tis thine to bear with life,
She hovers on untiring wings above thee,

To calm perchance, unseen, thy bosom's strife,

And with e'en more than mother's love to love thee?

Say, are the thoughts presumptuous which assign
Such glad employ to souls in faith departed?
And can no delegated power Divine

Soothe with a holy peace the broken-hearted?

We know not; but amidst the varied bliss,

The unimaginable joys of Heaven, Haply some glorious embassy like this

To mortals, now immortal, may be given.

And oh, to deem it true!

How speeds the soul New light and life and happiness to borrow, How bursts enraptured from the world's control, And leaves to Earth, Earth's desolating sorrow!

The loved, no longer lost, is thine again—

Her spirit holds with thee a sweet communion— She gently bids thee cease to weep in vain,

And see by faith a yet more hallow'd union!

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.

MOMENTS pass slowly on,

Years fly apace —

When shall the wearied one

Rest from the Race?

Whether we smile or weep,
Time keeps his flight—
Hours, days, may seem to creep,
Life speeds like light!

Whether we laugh or groan,

Seasons change fast;

Oh! what hath ever flown

Swift as the past?

What though we chafe and chide,

Time holds his pace;

No step no noiseless stride

Doth he retrace!