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.
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 gave to me
Early, its bitter cup;
My God! I am an orphan child,
But thou wilt take me up.
O, I do deem them brothers now,
Who have of misery known;
And love as sisters, those that weep
And feel like me, alone.
Alone, alone, the motherless,
Whom each one seems to shun:
Cast out upon the cold wide world,
A solitary one.
Yet more I pity those that have
Mothers they ne'er may see;
My mother went, but then I know
She is where angels be.
And while I call upon her name,
And weep where she doth lie,
Her lofty spirit-hymns are heard
Above the star-lit sky.
Then take my gift and haste to build
To God a house of prayer,
For those whom cruel hands have made
The orphans of despair.
GOD, OUR GOD, HIS POWER REVEALING.
GOD, our God, his power revealing
In this latter harvest time,
Bids his sun, with wings of healing,
Rise on each benighted clime:
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 School-
He 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 hymns above
Fade, while children lisp the story
Of a Saviour's dying love.
TO CERTAIN DUELLISTS.
Go ye that fain would sit on high
In Legislation's halls;
That proudly boast, yet quail to die,
Save when false Honour calls-
Go-and with witless mockery
Scoff at your fellow, then
Let blood wash out the insult, ye
Are honourable men.
Go, smite the stripling in his bloom,
'Tis Honour prompts the deed:
Send down gray hairs unto the tomb,
Bid woman's bosom bleed,
Go, speed your brother to the goal,
Where shines not Mercy's Star;
And with hot blood upon the soul,
Rush ye unto that bar.
Go, bravely rend the holiest ties;
Shrink not!-shall Honour fear?
Go, laugh to scorn the orphan's cries,
Jest at the widow's tear:
What boots it that her secret curse
Is written on your brow?
The world sees not, nor deems ye worse,
Though blood be on ye now.
O, no-Derision's withering blot
Will never dim your fame;
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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