Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King?

Art thou not—yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,--yea, thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind?
Yea, be humble; yea, be still;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise;
Go more softly all thy days;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,-
And if God in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sin and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind of thine,
So great, ambitious and divine,
Would but a root of anguish be,
A madness and a misery,

A bitter fear, a hideous care

All too terrible to bear,

Kingly, but king of pains and woes, The sceptred slave to throbs and throes!

Justly then, my God, to thee,

My royal soul shall bend the knee.
My royal soul, Thy glorious breath,
By Thee set free from guilt and death,
Before thy Majesty bows down,
Offering the homage of her crown,
Well pleased to sing in better bliss,
"My God to me a kingdom is."

TARRING CHURCH.

MOTHER,-beneath fair Tarring's heavenward spire, Where in old years thy youthful vows were paid, When God had granted thee thy heart's desire,

And she went forth a wife, who came a maid, With mindful steps thus wisely have we stray'd, Full of deep thoughts: for where that sacred fire Of Love was kindled, in the self-same spot, Thou, with the dear companion of thy lot, Thy helpmate all those years, mine honour'd sire, To-day have found fulfilled before your eyes The promise of old time;-look round and see Thy children's children! lo, these babes arise, And call thee blessed: Blessed both be ye! And in your blessing bless ye these, and me.

SONNET; ON A BIRTH.

AT length,--a dreary length of many years,
God's favour hath shone forth! and blest thee well,
O handmaid of the Lord, for all thy tears,

For all thy prayers, and hope, and faith-and fears,
With that best treasure of consummate joy

A childless wife alone can fully tell

How sorely long withheld--her first-born boy: This blessing is from heav'n; to heav'n once more, Another Hannah with her Samuel,

Render thou back the talent yielding ten,

A spirit, trained right early to adore,
A heart to yearn upon its fellow-men,

A being, meant and made for endless heaven,
This give to God: this, God to thee hath given.

DUTY.

PEARLS before swine: this is an old complaint;
In very humbleness, and not in pride,
The spirit feels it true; yet makes a feint

To rest with man's neglect well satisfied,

And have its wealth of words, its stores of thought Despised or unregarded: woe betide

The heart that lives on praise! considering nought Of Duty's royal edicts, that command

Thy talents to be lent, thy lamp to shine: Soul, be not faint; nor, body, stay thy hand;

Heed only this, not whether those be swine, But whether these be pearls, precious and pure; That so, whatever fate the world make thine, With God for Judge, thy guerdon be secure.

COUNSEL.

FOR MUSIC.

THERE is a time for praising,

And a better time for pray'r,-
The heart its anthem raising,
Or uttering its care:
One minute is for smiling,

And another for the tear,

Hope, by turns, beguiling,

Or her haggard brother, Fear.

But, if in joy thou praisest

The generous Hand that gave,-
And if in woe thou raisest

The prayer that He may save;
Thy griefs shall seem all pleasure,
As the chidings of a Friend,
And thy joys ecstatic measure
A beginning without end!

I NEVER left the place that knew me,
And may never know me more,
Where the chords of kindness drew me,

And have gladdened me of yore,
But my secret soul has smarted
With a feeling full of gloom
For the days that are departed,
And the place I call'd my Home.

I am not of those who wander
Unaffectioned here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of my sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory's finger

(Though my faithless foot may roam)
Where I've most been made to linger
In the place I call'd my Home.

BYEGONES.

FOR MUSIC.

"LET byegones be byegones," they foolishly say, And bid me be wise and forget them;

But old recollections are active to-day,

And I can do nought but regret them;

Though the present be pleasant, all joyous and gay,
And promising well for the morrow,

I love to look back on the years past away,
Embalming my byegones in sorrow.

If the morning of life has a mantle of gray,
Its noon will be blither and brighter,

If March has its storm, there is sunshine in May,
And light out of darkness is lighter:

Thus the present is pleasant, a cheerful to-day,
With a wiser, a soberer gladness,

Because it is tinged with the mellowing ray
Of a yesterday's sunset of sadness.

RULE, BRITANNIA!

A STIRRING SONG FOR PATRIOTS, IN THE YEAR 1860.