And Sin's pale daughter Misery,
In her Protean forms

Of sickness pain - mortality

Hath claim'd an empire, where before
Peace dwelt, and Gladness hover'd o'er.

Bring back this world, Great Conqueror !
To thy benignant sway;
Establish Truth in Righteousness,

And haste the Gospel day:

Then might we hope this earth to see

As like to heaven as earth could be!

From the Missionary Annual, 1833.

A Birth-Day Thought.

Leigh Richmond.

My birthday-of-nature I've oftentimes kept,

And rejoiced in the revels of youth:

Yet 't was all but a dream; for I slumber'd and slept,

Quite a stranger to God and his truth.

But he pitied my soul: I awoke from my sleep;

And he saved me in infinite love,

A new birthday my Saviour then taught me to keep,
For again I was born from above.

And now I believe that the God of all peace
Will be mine till with age I am hoary,

But if Angels rejoiced at my birthday of Grace

How they'll sing on my birthday of Glory.

Love.

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

THERE is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the Garden of the heart;

Its root lieth deep: it is delicate, yet lasting, as the lilac crocus of autumn:

Loneliness and thought are the dews that water it morn and even;

Memory and Absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the south:

Its sun is the brightness of Affection, and it bloometh in the borders of Hope;

Its companions are gentle flowers, and the briar withereth by its side.

I saw it budding in beauty; I felt the magic of its smile; The violet rejoiced beneath it, the rose stooped down and kiss'd it:

And I thought some cherub had planted there a truant flower of Eden,

As a bird bringeth foreign seeds, that they may flourish in a kindly soil.

I saw, and asked-not its name; I knew no language was so wealthy,

Though every
heart of every clime findeth its echo within.
And yet what shall I say? Is a sordid man capable of
Love?

Or he that changeth often, can he know its truth?

Longing for another's happiness, yet often destroying its own;

Chaste, and looking up to God, as the fountain of tenderness and joy:

Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers; Lasting, and knowing not change it walketh with Truth and Sincerity.

Love : what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,

A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,
The lightning in a touch, a millennium in a moment,
What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted love!
For it is that native poetry springing-up indegenous to
Mind.

The heart's own-country music thrilling all its chords,
The story-without-an-end that angels throng to hear,
The word, the king of words, carv'd on Jehovah's heart!
Go, call-thou snake-eyed-malice mercy, call envy honest
praise,

Count selfish-craft for wisdom, and coward-treachery for prudence,

Do homage to blaspheming unbelief as to bold and free philosophy

And estimate the recklessness of licence as the right attribute of liberty,

But with the world, thou friend and scholar, stain not this pure name;

Nor suffer the majesty of Love to be likened to the meanness of desire:

For Love is no more such than seraphs' hymns are discord,

And such is no more Love than Etna's breath is summer.

Love is a sweet idolatry enslaving all the soul,

A mighty spiritual force warring with the dulness of

matter,

An angel-mind breath'd into a mortal, though fallen yet how beautiful!

All the devotion of the heart in all its depth and grandeur. Behold that pale geranium, pent within the cottagewindow;

How yearningly it stretcheth-to-the-light its sickly longstalked leaves,

How it straineth upward to the sun, coveting his sweet influences,

How real a living sacrifice to the god of all its worship! Such is the soul that loveth; and so the rose-tree of affection

Bendeth its every leaf to look on those dear eyes,

Its every blushing petal basketh in their light,

And all its gladness, all its life, is hanging on their love.

If the love-of-the-heart is blighted, it buddeth not again; If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no

more:

Yet often will thought look back, and weep over early affection;

And the dim notes of that pleasant song will be heard as a reproachful spirit,

Moaning in Æolian strains over the desert-of-the-heart, Where the hot siroccos of the world have withered its one oasis.

The Beepsake.

OH! know'st thou why, to distance driven,
When friendship weeps the parting hour,
The simplest gift, that moment given,
Long, long, retains a magic power?

Still, when its meets the musing view,
Can half the theft of time retrieve,
The scenes of former bliss renew,

And bid each dear idea live.

It boots not if the pencil'd rose
Or sever'd ringlet meet the eye:
Or India's sparkling gems disclose
The talisman of sympathy.

"Keep it yes, keep it for my sake," -
On fancy's ear still peals the sound;
Nor time the potent charm shall break,
Nor loose the spell by nature bound.

Stanza.

From an Album.

SHE was passing away in her beauty's young bloom;
And no terrors for her had the cold silent tomb,-
But she hail'd its approach as the ark of repose,
The friend of the weary, the healer of woes;
And, wean'd from the world and its glittering toys,
Sought rest more enduring, more permanent joys!

She was passing away while the rosebud of spring
Did around her its sweetness and loveliness fling,
While the air was serene, and the heavens bright shone
With a lustre and beauty resembling her own;
And life, deck'd in hues of the rainbow's own dye,
Seem'd form'd but to wake the fond dreaming of joy!