No portents now our foes amaze,
Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know THY ways,
And THOU hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen,
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,
The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn.
But THOU hast said, The blood of goat,
The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, a humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MAGDALENE'S HYMN.

THE air of death breathes through our souls, The dead all round us lie;

By day and night the death-bell tolls,

The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wondrous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave
With thin locks silvery-grey ;

I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest

Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said

The life of life departs;

The body in the grave is laid,

Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight, voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.

We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came!
-We veil our eyes before thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name.

This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The Plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd

In the glory yet to come; O idle grief! O foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

years

Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast!

PROFESSOR WILSON.

POOR MAN'S HYMN.

As much have I of worldly good

As e'er my Master had:

I diet on as dainty food,

And am as richly clad,

Tho' plain my garb, though scant my board,
As Mary's Son and Nature's Lord.

The manger was his infant bed,

His home, the mountain-cave,
He had not where to lay his head,
He borrow'd even his grave.
Earth yielded him no resting spot,
Her Maker, but she knew him not.

As much the world's good will I bear,
Its favours and applause,

As He, whose blessed name I bear,-
Hated without a cause,

Despis'd, rejected, mock'd by pride,
Betray'd, forsaken, crucified.

Why should I court my Master's foe?
Why should I fear his frown?
Why should I seek for rest below,

Or sigh for brief renown?

A pilgrim to a better land,

An heir of joys at God's right hand.

JOSIAH CONDER.

A THANKSGIVING.

LORD, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof,

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber soft to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state.

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who thither come and freely get
Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen small;

A little butterie, and therein

A little byn,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unclipt, unflead;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire;

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.