Linking him to life; and year on year passed by,
And he was old and feeble, and was known
Whole days to kneel, praying that he might die.
His generation vanished one by one,
And yet he lived-oh, miserable man!
Cursing himself, in his dark tottering age;
Nor could the Pope release him from the oan
Of life, by prayer or weary pilgrimage.

Such is the history of that haunted room,
Where duly in the silent midnight's gloom,
That mournful lady by the bed is placed
Weeping, with her rich rosary at her waist.'
I slept no more within that place of fear-
And the next day we journeyed on to Rome,
Where we abode a long and mournful year,
And laid my gentle mother in her tomb.

HYMN.

[TOPLADY.]

INSPIRER and hearer of

prayer,
Thou feeder and guardian of thine,
My all to thy covenant care
I sleeping and waking resign;
If thou art my shield and my sun,
The night is no darkness to me,
And fast as my moments roll on.
They bring me but nearer to thee.

Thy minist'ring spirits descend
To watch while thy saints are asleep,
By day and by night they attend,
The heirs of salvation to keep;

Bright seraphs dispatch'd from the throne,
Repair to the stations assign'd,
And angels elect are sent down,
To guard the elect of mankind.

Thy worship no interval knows,
Their fervour is still on the wing:
And while they protect my repose,
They chant to the praise of my King:
I too, at the season ordain'd,
Their chorus for ever shall join,
And love, and adore, without end,
Their faithful Creator, and mine.

HYMN.

[NOEL.]

WHEN musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain,
How sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain!

'Tis not that murmuring thoughts arise, And dread a Father's will;

"Tis not that meek submission flies, And would not suffer still.

It is that heaven-taught faith surveys,
The paths to realms of light;
And longs her eagle plumes to raise,
And los herself in sight.

It is that hope with ardour glows,
To see him face to face,
Whose dying love no language knows
Sufficient art to trace.

It is that harass'd conscience feels

The pangs

of struggling sin;

Sees, though afar, the hand that heals,
And ends her war within.

Oh! let me wing my hallowed flight
From earth-born woe and care;
And soar beyond these realms of night,
My Saviour's bliss to share.

SUNDAY MORNING.

[REV. R. MANT.]

WELCOME thou peaceful dawn!
O'er field and wooded lawn

The wonted sound of busy toil is laid.

And hark! the village bell!

Whose simple tinklings swell,

Sweet as soft music, on the straw-roof'd shed,

And bid the pious cottager prepare

To keep the appointed rest, and seek the house of pray'ı.

How goodly 'tis to see

The rustic family

Duly along the church-way path repair:

The mother trim and plain

Leading her ruddy train,

The father pacing slow with modest air.

With honest heart and humble guise they come,

To serve Almighty God, and bear his blessing home.

At home they gaily share

Their sweet and simple fare,

And thank the Giver of the festal board;

Around the blazing hearth

They sit in harmless mirth,

Or turn with awe the volume of the Lord:

Then full of heav'nly joy retiring pay

Their sacrifice of pray'r to HIM who bless'd the day.

O Sabbath bell, thy voice

Makes hearts like these rejoice; Not so the child of vanity and pow'r: He the best pavement treads Perchance as custom bids,

Perchance to gaze away a listless hour;

Then crowns the bowl, or scours along the road,

Nor hides his shame from men, nor heeds the

God.

When the seventh morning's gleam

Purpled the lonely stream,

On its green bank of old the Christian bow'd;
The hand adoring spread,

And broke the mystic bread;

And leagu'd in bonds of holy concord, vow'd

eye of

From the cleans'd heart to wash each foul offence,
And give his days to peace and saintly innocence.

In vain the Roman lord

Way'd the relentless sword,

And spread the terrors of the circling flame;
In vain the heathen sought,

If chance some lurking spot

Might mar the lustre of the Christian name;
Th' Eternal Spirit, by his fruits confess'd,

In life secur'd from stain, and steel'd in death the breast.

O would his influence bless

With faith and holiness

The laggart people of our favour'd isle!
But if too deep and wide

Have spread corruption's tide,

O might he deign on me and mine to smile!
So shall we ne'er with due devotion fail
The consecrated day of solemn rest to hail;
So shall we still resort

To Sion's hallow'd court,

And lift the heart to him that dwells above;
Thence, home returning, muse

On sweet and solemn views,

Or fill the void with acts of holy love;

Then lay us down in peace to think we've given Another precious day to fit our souls for heaven.

VIRTUE AND PLEASURE.

[FORDYCE.]

INFORM me, Virtue, is it true;

Does Pleasure really dwell with you
The sons of sense say,-No.

?

They say that all who mind your rules
Are gloomy superstitious fools,

And every joy forego.

They say and openly maintain,

That your rewards are care aud pain:
And while of beav'n you preach,

At best 'tis but a phantom fair,
The soul is mortal, melts in air,
And heav'n shall never reach.