"Content to suffer loss and shame,

To labor for His sake,

They conquered thro' the Lamb's loved name, Tho' nature faint and weak.

Their spots are wash'd, their robes made clean,
In His own blood, from every stain.

Among them now, He joys to reign
And they, to hear Him speak.

"No sin assaults their hallow'd breast,
Temptations now are o'er,
They dread, in this eternal rest,
Vain anxious thoughts no more.
No anguish now-no tearful eye,
Head bent with grief—heartbreaking sigh,
No hunger, thirst, or parching sky,
In this unchanging shore.

"And Unbelief, which dares intrude
Ev'n on the holiest hour,
Unwelcome to the soul renew'd,
Tho' shrinking in its power,
Exists no more-by light enwreath'd,
Each soul from every harm is sheath'd,
And Faith in living fountains bath'd,
There blooms a fadeless flow'r."

Didst thou not recognise, blest Seer,
In that bright band enroll'd,
The saints and prophets martyr'd here,
As scripture lines unfold?

Or coulds't thou in each seraph face,
One pang of mortal anguish trace?
No-tho' they sprung of mourning race,
The tale is there untold.

No stain is on thy brow of snow,
First of the marty'd line,*
Emblem of blood, whose precious flow
Spake better things than thine.
On toil-worn Jacob, see! no care-
His sorrows o'er, how calm his air!
Like the smooth wave when angels fair
Breathe on the foaming brine.

In patient Abra'am's beaming eye,
Fixed once in faith and fear,
No more his Isaac seems to lie
Stretched for the burning bier.
Faith lost in sight, and all things done,
He needs no type, for he hath won,
To see THE CHRIST, his promised SON,
Rule the celestial sphere.

Thine ears, meek Moses, in that crowd,
No thankless murmurs meet,
Where He thou saw'st in fiery cloud,
Now holds love's mercy seat.
Psalmist of Israel! thy sweet strings

No more one note of sadness brings,
Thou art not seen with drooping wings,
While harping at his feet.

'Twas Jesse's son whose plaintive lyre

So sweet, so sadly strung,
Now rose in all the warmth of fire,

And now neglected hung.

Soft were his strains, and some 'tis true
Of joy that fled like summer's dew,
But sorrow's furnace oft'ner drew
The anguish'd notes.he sung.

* Heb. xii. 24.

That harp is silent, but how sweet
The breath it left behind,

Like perfume burn'd 'tis exquisite,

And scents the viewless wind. The written record seems to share

The Spirit which once inscribed it there, We chant his hymn, we breathe his prayer, And thus partake his mind.

Oh while the eye of faith can see
So bright a scene as this,
It lingers in such company
A golden hour of bliss.

But time would fail in blest amount,
The thousand thousands could I count,
Enlarged each moment from that fount
Where Christ makes creatures His.

Since John (belov'd of Jesus) view'd
That glorious sight on high,

Oh what a countless multitude

Of His, has gemmed the sky.

Martyrs and saints, who, in His cause,
Have scorn'd the world, and world's applause,

Wept for His sake, His broken laws,

Nor feared for Him to die.

And were we now allowed to see
A sight like this revealed,
Some faces there we know, would be

As saints of God unveiled.

Some who, of late, have passed away,
Like meteors in a clouded day,
A blaze shed forth, too bright to stay,
And now in death concealed.

Say whose the form so brilliant wreathed,
Stars round his shining head,

Earth's atmosphere could he have breathed,
Whose looks such lustre shed?
Brainerd 'tis thou! whose patient toil
Labour'd thro' faith in Indian soil,

And thou hast won the serpent's spoil,
And grief and pain are fled.

And by thy side, united clings,
A form like love benign,

Together strike his harp's sweet strings
With every note of thine.

'Tis Martyn! he whose anxious breast,
Feverish and throbbing found no rest.
He, who the "Land of Roses," blest
With Jesus' light divine.

Oh see their wings, their robes how fair,
Hear each melodious voice!

Thou, oh my soul, wouldst fain be there,
But be not Ease thy choice.

If to that bliss thou woulds't aspire,
Thou must possess a burnish'd lyre,

Tried, proved like theirs, in sevenfold fire,
Would'st thou with them rejoice.

Evening being far advanced when this poem was finished, the parties separated, and young Villeroi returned home a little more enlightened in his views, but not cooled in his enthusiasm. In fact, he was in that state of mind which we may call the religion of imagination; his affections were heated with certain

glowing sentiments on subjects which his understanding pronounced good, and these two united, produced impressions on his character, which, in his own opinion and that of others, were the offspring of genuine and spiritual Christianity. But, alas, they were as fair blossoms grafted on a sapless stem; his heart was yet unregenerate, unacquainted with its own state, though well aware of the general state of mankind; and destitute of life-giving faith, though from religious education and habitual association with persons who were, for the most part, sincere and devout Christians, he was well informed that faith is the very principle of spiritual vitality. But, it may be asked, What new anomaly is this? A youth full of missionary zeal, and devoted to religious employments without the possession of religion himself? Can such a character exist in reality? and if so, where are we to look for the proofs of our Lord's unerring test—"By their fruits ye shall know them?"

Alas, it is too true! talents, and zeal, and energy may all be found without the fruits of the Spirit. It is the graces of Christianity, not the gifts which mark the character of the true believer. It is his love, and joy, and peace, his long suffering, meekness, gentleness, faith. These denote the indwelling of Christ in the heart, and cannot exist separately from Him. They spring from the root itself, and though not always in a flourishing state, yet must be found in some degree wherever there is genuine faith.

But activity, and invention, and animation, and