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! And way-worn pilgrims seek the scanty spring? No suppliant nations in thy temple wait, No prophet-bards, the glittering courts among, 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 stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, And in fierce joy, no more by doubt supprest, The dark transparence of her lucid eye, Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. On's sunlike shield, and Zoan's chariot, where? Palestine. THE RISE OF SALEM. Yet still destruction sweeps the lonely plain, And who is He? the vast, the awful form, Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare, Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home? Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!" MISSIONARY HYMN. From Greenland's icy mountains, Roll down their golden sand; From many a palmy plain, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes The gifts of God are strown- Shall we, whose souls are lighted Shall we to man benighted The joyful sound proclaim, Has learnt Messiah's name. Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, It spreads from pole to pole; Redeemer, King, Creator, TO HIS WIFE. If thou wert by my side, my love, If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 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! |