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O, brighter shone the Godhead out,

When taking children to his arms, Than when confessed by Jewish shout,

By regal pomp and waving palms.

Yea, loftier than a conqueror, came

The Saviour to his suffering,
When they of Bethphage sang acclaim,
And
gave

hosannas to their King.

CHAPEL IN LIBERIA.

While a collection was making for the purpose of erecting a Chapel in Liberia, which was also to serve for a school house, little s- an orphan girl, who had listened to the account of that colony, with the deepest interest, came forward, and eagerly tendered her little box of savings, saying “ take it all."

Nay, take my gift, and spurn it not,

My heart obeys that call;
Others may bring their gold, yet more
I offer-'tis

my

all.

My all—for sorrow

ave to me
Early, its bitter cup;
My God! I am an orphan child,

But thou wilt take me up.

0, I do deem them brothers now,

Who have of misery known;

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See! o'er vale and humbled mountain,

Rolls his conquering car to day; See! his brightness, like a fountain,

Flooding all the glad highway.

By the mission ships that wander,

Messengers to every sea, — By his servants toiling yonder,

Where stern idols claim the knee, Bibles, news of peace declaring

To the wretch by sin undone, Tracts, obedient missives, bearing

Liberty to thraldom's son:

By the tender mercies, glowing

Where reigned hatred and misrule: And the thousand blessings, flowing

From his chosen Sunday SchoolHe is error's night dispelling,

Bidding grace in rivers flow, From Antarctic, to the dwelling

Of the lowly Esquimaux.

Wake the harp, ye angels! ever

Warble, ye melodious choirs! Sweet your minstrelsy, yet never

With Redemption, thrill those wires. 'Tis our song, and all your glory

Starry crowns and hymps above Fade, while children lisp the story

Of a Saviour's dying love.

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He is the recreant who dares not

With murder gild his name;
Yet smile, vain world!-when whets God's sword,

With him it shall be well;
That smile—the Duellist's reward-

Is but the laugh of hell.

OCCASIONED BY READING GORDON HALL'S LAST

APPEAL FOR THE HEATHEN.

A VOICE-a voice-from the land of death, Uncheered by the day-beam, revived by no breath; A voice-a voice—it breaks from that gloom, Appealing to men ere 'tis hushed in the tomb.

A voice!-it comes on the pestilent gale
From Juggernaut's slain,—with the Suttee's wail,
With the mother's shriek, with the innocent sigh
Of babes, in their martyrdom, mingles that cry.

A voice to the Church!—from your slumbers wake
The maddening spell of cruelty break;
The mighty have risen with buckler and sword,
Speedily send to the help of the Lord.

A voice to the Young Men!-hear ye that call?
Do ye gird for the battle and fear ye to fall?
By that path to their crowns your brothers trod,
March ye where beckon the banners of God.

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