were of course read to him; but the one for which he called most frequently was the Bible. The attention which he paid to the portions which were read, and the remarks which he made, proved him to be seeking very earnestly the true rest of his soul. It was only about a fortnight before he died, that he obtained such a clear manifestation of the love of God as delivered him entirely from the fear of death. His mother had been reading to him "The Young Cottager;" and whilst hearing of the simplicity and faith of "little Jane," he was encouraged to trust in the merits of his Redeemer for himself. His trust brought him peace, and joy, and hope. He exclaimed, "Mother, I am happy; I am not afraid to die:" and on his father entering the room shortly after, he said, "Father, I do not feel as I did. All is quite different. I believe the Lord has changed my heart. I do not feel any fear of dying: God will receive me when I die." This hope was indeed an anchor to him while he yet remained "tossed on a sea of distress." His sufferings rather increased than diminished; but he cast not away his confidence, and waited patiently to be relieved from pain, and received to his better inheritance. The night before he died, when it was evident that the hand of death was upon him, part of the 15th chapter of the 1st epistle to the Corinthians was read to him; and when his mother spoke to him of the solemn change which was now approaching, he said, "O what a blessing, to be brought in the twinkling of an eye from so much suffering, into such happiness and glory!" He again assured her that he had no fear of dying; and that he was persuaded the Lord would receive him. He remained after this speechless, and apparently in much pain for some hours; and then gently fell asleep in death, escaping from sorrow and pain, to fulness of joy, and pleasures for evermore. B. CARVOSSo.

POETRY.

THE HOLLY-TREE.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly-Tree?

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence so wise,

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize :

And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.
Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home, amid my friends I'd be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree.
And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The holly-leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they ;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they,

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly-Tree.

SOUTHEY.

THE ALPINE SONG.

Ir was a deep wild strain, and reverently
Amid the ancient mountain-pines it rose,
As from a native temple; melody

Soft, pensive, dirge-like,-meet for daylight's close,
Yet mingled with the hallowing faith that throws
A chasten'd light o'er sorrow's darkest hour,-
The heavenly hope that smiles at earthly woes,
The filial love that claims a promised dower.

Yes, they were holy tones that fill'd that mountain bower.
And they who breathed them? O they long had wept
O'er Zion's fallen fanes, her prostrate towers;
They mourn'd that error reign'd, that justice slept,
That truth seem'd vanquish'd by infernal powers.

Long they had bent 'neath persecution's showers,
And on the willows hung their silent lyres,

And joy's glad lay was hush'd in all their bowers;
Ye might have deem'd the spirit of their sires,
Crush'd by o'ermastering woe, lost amid suffering's fires.
Perchance 'twas crush'd;-crush'd only, not destroy'd;
For toil had done its utmost, and the heart
Sore chasten'd by affliction's potent rod,
May sink in weariness beneath the smart.
But O, there is an hour when it doth start,
As from a deep-seal'd slumber, into day,
And bid its weaknesses and fears depart,
On faith and love's strong pinions soar away
Far above earth's dim care, its hope's beclouded ray.
And thus it was! they long had borne the cross,
Long boldly dared to own the Saviour's sway,
For his dear sake accounted all but loss,
And trod, by man unawed, the narrow way.
Nor vain their faith's long trial! Dark its day,
Yet wrought its holy fruits of righteousness,-
And doubt's deep lingering shadows fled away,
And usher'd in the reign of cloudless peace.
Say, was it fruitless woe, that caused such sweet release?
O for their zeal's deep fervour! for the love
Whose quenchless fire within their bosoms glow'd;
That shrank not from the martyr's death, to prove
The power triumphant of their conquering God!
And mourn they now the thorny path they trod?
Or weep their earthly joys' untimely blight?
No, they have tasted of angelic food,

Have press'd their thrones of dazzling glory bright,
And swell'd the' exulting song, where faith is lost in sight.
November, 1838.

ADELINE.

PLEASURE.

THE wanton nymph Pleasure is lovely to see,
And sweet is the voice of her tongue's melody;
She trips on light toe, 'neath the bright summer sky,
She dimples her cheek, and she glances her eye,
Her soft-heaving bosom uncovereth bare,
And tosses the long-flowing curls of her hair.

And she haunts the fair spot where the red roses bloom,
And sings, "Gentle youth, O come with me, come!"

"O come with me, come! I have mirth in my train;
The land where I live is exempted from pain;

And joys are as thick as the dew on the leaves

When the morning of June o'er the green meadow breathes,

And the Loves and the Graces dance sprightly around,
And silver-string'd harps utter heavenly sound;
And bright is the sun in my flowery groves,
And cool is the shade of my vine-hung alcoves,
And streams of rich nectar flow freely along:
O, come taste of joy while thy spirit is strong!"
List not, gentle youth! list not! turn away!
Nor look at the nymph so bewitchingly gay:
O heed not her voice, though as honey 'tis sweet;
It is but a lure to bewilder thy feet.

From beauty to beauty she will lead thee awhile,
Enthrall'd by the powerful charm of a smile,
Till, snared in her intricate mazes, in vain
The wish to trace back thy wanderings again.

Then the avenues darken; bright scenes are dispersed;
What seem'd Loves and Graces are demons accursed,
That laugh as she leads thee away to her home.
For Pleasure, so gay, where the red roses bloom,
Dwells, a foul hag, with Death in the cave of the tomb.

J. W.

THE BLIND GIRL TO HER MOTHER.
MOTHER, they say the stars are bright,

And the broad heavens are blue:
I dream of them by day and night,
And think them all like you.

I cannot touch the distant skies,
The stars ne'er speak to me ;-
Yet their sweet images arise,

And blend with thoughts of thee.
I know not why, but oft I dream
Of the far land of bliss;

And when I hear thy voice, I deem
That heaven is like to this.

When my sad heart to thine is prest,
My follies are forgiven,

Sweet pleasure arms my beating breast,
And this I say is heaven.

O mother, will the God above

Forgive my faults, like thee?
Will He bestow such care and love
On a blind thing like me?

Dear mother, leave me not alone!
Go with me when I die ;-

Lead thy blind daughter to the throne,
And stay in yonder sky!

ANONYMOUS.

THE LITTLE FLOCK.

"Fear not, little flock: for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom."-Luke xii. 32.

LITTLE flock, whom Jesus feeds,

Banish every anxious fear;

Follow where your Shepherd leads,
Pastures green will soon appear.

Dangers may beset your way,
Light nor guide your spirits cheer,
Meekly on your Shepherd stay;
Little flock, disdain to fear.

Jesus will not tarry long;
Wait his own appointed hour:
Soon he will be all your song;
All your theme-delivering power.
A kingdom's promised to you;
Wipe away the falling tear :
Can you doubt the promise true?
Little flock, why should you fear?

Kingdom!-sure 'tis peace, 'tis joy,
Sure 'tis rapture in your ears:
Praises let your hours employ;
Bid adieu to anxious fears.

From "The Christian Year."

GALES from heaven, if so He will,
Sweeter melodies can wake

On the lonely mountain-rill,

Than the meeting waters make.
Who hath the Father and the Son,

May be left, but not alone.

Sick or healthful, slave or free,

Wealthy, or despised and poor,—

What is that to him or thee,

So his love to Christ endure?

When the shore is won at last,
Who will count the billows past?

Only, since our souls will shrink

At the touch of natural grief,
When our earthly loved ones sink,

Lend us, Lord, thy sure relief;
Patient hearts, their pain to see,
And thy grace to follow Thee.

London: R. Needham, Printer, 1, Belle-Sauvage-Yard, Ludgate-Hill.