THE ENGLISH BURYING-GROUND AT ROME.

"SOLACE OF SONG."

"Although my house be not so with God; yet he hath made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things, and sure; for this is all my salvation, and all my desire, although he make it not to grow."-2 Sam. xxiii. 5.*

WILL Rome then yield a place of rest

To those who will not own
Submission to her triple crest,

Or kiss her priestly throne?

She will she points a plot of ground,
Without the city's hallowed bound,
Where spreads a gentle couch around,
With herbs and flow'rets strewn.

Enough! we hail the outer ward,
And wall with ivy decked,
The pyramid of a heathen lord t

May well our bones protect;
Better a scorned and lowly tomb,
Than lie embraced by faithless Rome,
When He, who seals the city's doom,

Shall rise for his elect.

Inscription on one of the tombstones.

The pyramid of Caius Cestus.

'Tis meet, since we refuse to share
Her board of blessings spread,

Nor heed her ban, nor ask her prayer,
That she refuse our dead!

It matters not-they sleep as sweet,
Low nestled at the city's feet,
Spared by the angry storms that beat
Fierce on her tow'ring head.

We sought with her in life no part;
Grudged not her wealth or fame;
Despised her superstition's mart;
Refused to gild her shame.
We asked no faint or jaundiced ray,

To point the source of living day,

Our guide (THE LIFE, THE TRUTH, THE WAY,)

We owned no other name.

A long array we may not boast

Of deeds of merit bright;

Of conquests won o'er hell's proud host,

By man's unaided might;

One work is ours, more choice than gold,

FAITH *-faith in Christ, by which enrolled,

We crowd within the Shepherd's fold,
And pasture in his sight.

No marble from Sicilia brought,

Nor monumental bust,

Nor form by skilful chisel wrought,

May press the mouldering dust;

John vi. 29.

As forth we came, we sink to earth,
Naked, and destitute of worth;
Yet, glorying in our second birth,

We have whereon to trust.

For though our house is not with Him,
As His commands require,

Our service stained, our graces dim,

And faint each pure desire,

Upon the heart his broad seal prest,
In His white robe of virtue drest,
On His sure covenant we rest;
And to His heaven aspire.

We know who rightful claims our faith,
Immutably the same;

Nor heed Earth, Hell, or tyrant Death,
Though they denounce our name!

Without the gate the Saviour bled,
Without the gate they made His bed;
How blest with Him to lay our head,
And share our Master's shame!*

We thank thee, Rome, for this green field,
Howe'er by thee unblest;

We thank thee more, thou would'st not yield
A place upon thy breast!

On thy bent brow there is a sign,

Though fiercely flushed with harlot-wine,
That notes thee doomed to wrath divine;
Oh, who would be thy guest!

Heb. xiii. 12, 13:

Far rather would we rest our dead,

Where spring nor summer bloom, Than ask of thee when life is fled,

The same proud common tomb.

When on thy crown the death-bolts lower,
The thought will cheer us in that hour;
"They shared not in thy pride of power,
They share not in thy doom!"

THE MYRTLE.

"MORAL OF FLOWERS."

"In countries where it grows wild, it sometimes is found blooming among rocks; and its delicate beauty, when contrasted with the ruggedness of its abode, seems to derive an additional charm."

YES, take thy station here,

Thou flower so pale and fair!

That I from thee may sweetest lessons borrow ;
For thou hast that to tell,

Methinks, which suits thee well

The lingering hours of languishment and sorrow.

The cleft rock is thy home;

Yet sweetly dost thou bloom,

E'en while the threatening winds are round thee

swelling;

And where's the pamper'd flower

Can richer fragrance shower,

Than thou, fair blossom, from thy storm-wrought dwelling?

Say, then, though pale decay

Wear youth and health away,

Shall sighs alone this troubled breast be heaving?
Oh, no! I'll bless the chain,

Which to this couch of pain

Has bound me long, for 'tis of Mercy's weaving.