But he nor trusted thee, nor fear'd;
Not at thy pleasure safe he steer'd,

Or 'gainst thy scowlings beat:
He knew Jehovah ruled, as slaves,
Thy myriad host of wanton waves.

O for a faith! the faith of Paul,-
To rise above things seen;
To cease to feel and mourn that all
Are not as might have been:
That ocean, air, the land, the fire,
Might aye celestial thoughts inspire,

And from earth's pleasures wean

Then all I think, or hear, or see,
Were token from my God to me.

And thou, fair sea!-for be thy form,
As spread before my sight,

Or heaved and froth'd abroad by storm,
Or gemm'd with twinklings bright—

I love thee for thy Maker's sake,
And hail the thoughts thy waves awake,
Thoughts clothed in mystic might,
That He, who rules in heaven above,
Loves me, His child, for He is Love.

One hour upon this lonely shore,

Where Paul before me trod, Hath lent me wings in hope to soar, And commune with my God: Oh would this fresh'ning southern breeze, That murmurs gently through the trees, And spreads their scents abroad, Bear hither, as my longings rise,

The loaded gales of Paradise!

What is Life's course, by day and night,

But an unstable sea,

Now wrestling in malicious might,
Now froth'd in sportive glee—
Why should I heed its restless wiles,
Its heaving wrath, or twinkling smiles,
Its frowns or revelry?—

I heed nor blame-it has its hour-
The tool of an Almighty power.

O give me grace, my gracious King,
To take, as from Thine hand

The woes its boisterous tempests bring,
The comforts of its strand-

Then every breeze shall echo, 'Come,'
And every billow waft me home,

To Canaan's blissful land;

Where rolling thunders cease to roar,
And the toss'd soul rests evermore!

Latrobe.

HORA NOVISSIMA.

JAR down the ages now,

Her journey well-nigh done,
The pilgrim Church pursues her way,

In haste to reach the crown.

The story of the past

Comes up before her view;

How well it seems to suit her still,

Of

Old, and yet ever new.

'Tis the same story still
Of sin and weariness,-

grace and love still flowing down

To pardon and to bless.

'Tis the old sorrow still,

The brier and the thorn;

And 'tis the same old solace yet,

The hope of coming morn.

No wider is the gate,

No broader is the way,

No smoother is the ancient path That leads to light and day.

No lighter is the load

Beneath whose weight we cry, No tamer grows the rebel flesh, No less our enemy.

No sweeter is the cup,

Nor less our lot of ill;

'Twas tribulation ages since, 'Tis tribulation still.

No greener are the rocks, No fresher flow the rills, No roses in the wilds appear, No vines upon the hills.

Still dark the sky above,

And sharp the desert air;

'Tis wide, bleak desolation round,

And shadow everywhere.

Dawn lingers on yon cliff;
But, oh, how slow to spring!

Morning still nestles on yon wave,
Afraid to try its wing.

No slacker grows the fight,

No feebler is the foe,

No less the need of armour tried,
Of shield and spear and bow :

Nor less we feel the blank
Of earth's still absent King;
Whose presence is of all our bliss
The everlasting spring.

Thus onward still we press,
Through evil and through good,
Through pain and poverty and want,
Through peril and through blood.

Still faithful to our God,
And to our Captain true;

We follow where He leads the way,

The kingdom in our view.

Bonar.