Shouldst thou not, parent, weep o'er him?

Thou hast a darling boy!

O, what if that pure ray were dim,
That lights up now thy joy?
Mother! that closer to thy breast,
Pressest thy guileless son-

O, what if thou shouldst deem her blest,
The childless stricken one?

And he at that tribunal now,
Was he not one to love?

Aye, on that early-troubled brow,
Sat meekness like a dove:

And those bent eyes, in happiness,
Gave once the laugh to care;
And that wan face wore cheerfulness,
That boyhood loves to wear.

Is't fit that one so fair and young,
Should be cast out from men?
Be heedlessly to ruin flung,

As though he ne'er had been?
Bethink thee, Admonition's lip
Might win him from that way;
And now,

well warned, he would not sip The sweets where danger lay.

O, save him!-yea, I know thou wilt,

Thou canst not bid him dwell

Where the cursed air breathes only guilt, Within the felon's cell:

THE REFUGE! angels bless the plan,

That, while it holds the rod,

Restores a fallen man to man,

A wanderer to God.

When the British army was advancing upon Plattsburg in solid column, a small detachment of the American artillery with a single field-piece, kept up an incessant retreating fire upon their enemy. These discharges made dreadful havoc; but the voice of the British commander was distinctly heard, saying, Fill up ! fill up! fill up!" and the column closed, as if regardless of the effect, and were not retarded by the loss of a number killed and wounded.

The case is applicable to the Christian cause. When some fall in one station and some in another, methinks I hear the great Captain of our salvation saying to his faithful soldiers," Fill up! fill up! fill up !" And I rejoice to know that their places are filling up with heroic ardour; and that the progress of the gospel will by no means be retarded because death makes his inroads ; but rather that the whole Christian army will be excited to double their efforts, till the last victory is achieved.-Chr. Watch.

A THOUSAND Warriors to the charge,
Bold-hearted men-have sprung;

In thunders of the cannon's voice
Their passing dirge is sung:
And thousands more at call of drum
Are rushing on the foe,;

Fill up! Fill up!-like those they come—

Like those to slumber low.

They fall, and 'tis a fading leaf

Earth gives unto her slain;

They die, 'tis in Fame's trumpet song

Her heroes live again.

And such her glory!—who has not,
In bitterness of soul,

Mused on the mighty, now forgot,
Once blazoned on her scroll?

Not such is your triumphant gain,
Ye followers of the cross!
Compared with that which ye obtain,
The universe were loss:

Your leader is the Crucified,

Whose death was Death's defeat; And with him battling at your side, Your victory's complete.

Not such your banner-folds that wave
To endless life alone,

That float above the soldier's grave,
And flash upon his throne.
Yea, from the consecrated field

Where Christ's brave legions lie,

Is rising other monument

Of names that cannot die.

Then see, where press the vigorous siege, Yon gallant, glorious few;

They give their heart's-blood for their liege, And straight are wrapt from view:

In Afric, China and Bengal

Their bones in waiting lie;

"Fill up our ranks!" to us they call,

Yea, from the nurseries of the church,
The youthful conscripts come;
And as their martyr comrades fall,
Rejoicing, take their room:

And deeper joy that mother knows
Than in her first-born's kiss,

When, strong in faith, that first-born goes
On warfare, such as this.

HAPPINESS WHERE IS IT?

Is it in wealth? Go, probe the breast
Of fortune's favourite heir:
And why doth woe that heart infest,
And anguish canker there?

Is it in fame? Its empty breath,
Inconstant as the breeze,

Will blast, ere long, the laurel wreath
That late it formed to please.

Is it in friendship, or in love?

Alas! they soon decay:

The tears of disappointment prove

How feeble is their stay.

"Tis not in all that here excels,

'Tis not in Folly's round;

Look upward, mortal, there it dwells,
And only there is found.

I HAVE NEVER SEEN THE RIGHTEOUS FORSAKEN.

I've seen the heir of guilt and wo,
And watched his wandering eye;
I've seen the tear of anguish flow,
And heard the troubled sigh.

I've seen the victim of despair,
A prey to want and sin;

I've looked upon his brow when there
Was writ the curse within.

I've seen the lordling roll in state,
And swell with bloated pride;

I've seen when at the poor man's gate,
The wretched outcast died.

I've seen the youth, whom pleasure's round
Had early taught to stray;

And those that by intemperance found

The flowery, fatal way.

These I have seen, but never yet

Have seen the child of prayer

Abandoned by his God, to eat
The bitter bread of care.