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 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 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 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, Weep'st thou, that while 'tis thine to bear with life, 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 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, 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! |