INFANT'S PRAYER.

Of sacred mystery, and the blessed union

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Of hearts which glow'd in our possession there.

How doubly blest! first in the full possessing,
And after in reflected life and light!

The past-the present-plenitude of blessing,
Which not eternity itself will blight!

JAMES EDMESTONE.

Jufant's Prayer.

O THOU! Who mak'st the sun to rise,

Beam on my soul, illume mine

eyes,

And guide me through this world of care :

The wandering atom thou canst see,

The falling sparrow's marked by thee,
Then, turning Mercy's ear to me,
Listen listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save
Man's nature from a second grave:

To share in whose redeeming care,
Want's lowliest child is not too mean,
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,
O! Thou wilt deign from heaven to lean,
And listen, listen,

Listen to an infant's prayer!

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WHERE IS HE?

O thou! who wilt from monarchs part,
To dwell within the contrite heart.

And build thyself a temple there;
O'er all my dull affections move,
Fill all my soul with heavenly love,
And, kindly stooping from above,
Listen listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

Where is Be?

NEELE.

"AND where is he?" Not by the side Of her whose wants he loves to tend; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,

Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend! That form beloved he marks no more; Those scenes admired no more shall see;

Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair,-but where is he?

No, no, the radiance is not dim,

That used to gild his favourite hill; The pleasures that were dear to him

Are dear to life and nature still But ah! his home is not as fair,

Neglected must his garden be,

The lilies droop and wither there,

And seem to whisper, "Where is he?"

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

His was the pomp, the crowded hall!
But where is now the proud display?
His-riches, honours, pleasures, all

Desire could frame; but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands

Protected by the circling sea,

Surrounded by admiring bands,

Seemed proudly strong, and where is he?

The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shows a vacant chair!
Here Sadness dwells, and weeps alone,

And Death displays his banners there :
The life has gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been, no more shall be:
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
Oh! where are they, and where is he?

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NEELE.

The Baur af Prayer.

BLEST hour! when mortal man retires
To hold communion with his God,
To send to heaven his warm desires,
And listen to his sacred word.

56.

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Blest hour! when earthly cares resign
Their empire o'er his anxious breast;
While all around, the calm divine
Proclaims the holy day of rest.

Blest hour! when God himself draws nigh,
Well pleased his people's voice to hear;
To list the penitential sigh,

And wipe away the mourner's tear,

Blest hour!-for then where He resorts,
Foretastes of future bliss are given,

And mortals find his earthly courts

The House of God-the Gate of Heaven.

Hail! peaceful hour, supremely blest
Amid the hours of earthly care!

The hour that yields the spirit rest,

That sacred hour-the hour of prayer.

And when my hours of prayer are past,
Oh! may I leave these Sabbath days,

To find eternity at last

A never-ending hour of praise!

REV. T. RAFFLES.

Che Destruction of Sennacherib.

THE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the

sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest which Summer is green, That host with its banners at sun-set was seen: Like the leaves of the forest which Autumn hath blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill; And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.