Thou wouldst not have the slave be bound; Thy Spirit's tender sigh

Was breathed into a human soul, and dimmed a human

eye;

And winged the messenger of love, to work Thy gracious

will;

For every act of love we see flows from Thy Spirit still.

Thou wouldst not have the red sword wave; Thou hatest sounds of strife;

Thy look beams only pity; Thou lovest to give life ; Blessed be Thou, Fountain of Love, all-gracious as Thou

art,

For breathing thoughts of harmony into man's warring heart!

Blessed be Thou for that mild Prince, our soul's Redeemer King,

Whom Thou hast given a rebel world unto Thy feet to bring ;

Blessed be thou! His breath is peace, and pity is His wing.

Thou didst, Thou didst of one blood make the nations of Thy earth;

One price Thou gavest for our souls; we have one common birth;

Alike one large, lost family-one ruined, rebel race; There is one cross set up for all-for all one wide embrace!

Hail, manifested Saviour King! Brother of every man! Of the poor negro in his chains, the roving mountain

clan;

Redeemer of the forest child, and of the fettered slave ; Lover of every human soul, in city, waste, or wave!

This glorious thought, that kindles now so many a beaming eye,

And moves the hands of skill and strength-a thought that will not die

It must, it must have issued forth from that same fountain first,

Whence streams of love on Calvary for every spirit

burst.

And oh, if all those streams would drink, meek kneeling, side by side,

How would the forms of evil sink, lost in Thy love's deep tide!

If all men loved Thy sceptre mild, then every hand would meet,

And every heart to Thy soft name in one broad anthem

beat.

Then let Thy smile, without whose light love's blossoms cannot live,

Prosper the labour of our hands, and honour all we

give;

And let our little gems and flowers, yea, all our strength

and soul,

Give impulse to Thy chariot wheels, to make them

faster roll.

EMMA TATHAM.

THE SPIRIT OF PROGRESS.

THE gloomy night is breaking,
E'en now the sunbeams rest,
With a faint yet cheering radiance,
On the hill-tops of the west.

The mists are slowly rising

From the valley and the plain;

And a spirit is awaking,

That shall never sleep again.

And ye may hear that listen,

The spirit's stirring song,

That surges like the ocean,

With its solemn bass along.

"Ho! can ye stay the rivers,
Or bind the wings of light;
Or bring back to the morning
The old departed night?

"Nor shall ye check my impulse,
Nor stay it for an hour,
Until earth's groaning millions
Have felt my healing power."

That spirit is Progression,

In the vigour of its youth; The foeman of Oppression,

And its armour is the TRUTH,

Old Error, with its legions,

Must fall beneath its wrath; Nor blood, nor tears, nor anguish, Will mark its brilliant path.

But onward, upward, heavenward,
The spirit still will soar,

"Till peace and love shall triumph,

And falsehood reign no more.

Mrs. F. D. GAGE.

WAR SONG FOR THE TIMES.

Up and onward, Europeans! arm ye for another fight! Men believe in steel no longer as the arbiter of right. You have spent enough of treasure and the sacred life of

man;

Other foes are pressing on you-up and meet them while

ye can.

Hark! a murmur, like the ground-swell telling of the coming storm,

Lo! a host arrayed for battle, numberless and multiform ; See, their name is on their banner blazoned, "Human

Misery,"

Gaunt of form and fiends in aspect, stalk in front their leaders three;

In the centre, pale and ghastly, WANT, with his envenomed spear,

Pointing to the weary nations, mutters low, "The time is near."

On his left, deformed and brute-like, IGNORANCE, with

shaded eye,

Gazeth o'er his new dominions, trusting to his strong ally. CRIME, the third, with devilish malice buckles on his

human snares,

Flask and purse, which lightly jingle 'gainst the dagger which he wears.