Business, alas! hath stopp'd in mid career,
And none are anxious to resume it here.

This is the home of grandeur: where are they-— The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise? Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay— The gaudy guise of human butterflies?

Alas! all lowly lies each lofty brow,

And the green sod 'dizens their beauty now.

This is a place of refuge and repose:

Where are the poor-the old-the weary wightThe scorn'd-the humble-and the man of woesWho wept for morn, and sigh'd again for night? Their sighs at last have ceased; and here they sleep Beside their scorners, and forget they weep.

This is a place of gloom: where are the gloomy?
The gloomy are not citizens of death.
Approach and look!-where the long grass is plumy,
See them above! they are not found beneath :

For these low denizens, with artful wiles,
Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles.

This is a place of sorrow: friends have met,

And mingled tears o'er those who answer'd not. And where are they whose eyelids then were wet? Alas! their griefs, their tears are all forgot;

They, too, are landed in this silent city,
Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor pity.

This is a place of fear: the firmest eye

Hath quail'd to see its shadowy dreariness;

But Christian hope, and heavenly prospects high,

And earthly cares, and nature's weariness, Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear, And long to end his painful journey here.

THE MAGDALEN.

DR HUIE.

OH! turn not such a withering look

On one who still can feel; Nor by a cold and harsh rebuke An outcast's misery seal!

But think, ere thus the mourner's sigh,

The mourner's tears you spurn, That 'tis perhaps a Friend on high Who prompts my late return!

The haunts of vice might pleasing seem When first I long'd to stray;

But ah! one hour dispell'd the dream, And dash'd my joys away.

Amidst the crowds in pleasure's bower My heart was still forlorn;

And where I thought to find a flower, I only felt a thorn.

Oh! say not, then, the cup of wrath I must submit to drain

When in the safe, the narrow path, I wish to tread again!

It is not thus the Gospel speaks

To those who cease from sin;

The soul, Immanuel's fold that seeks, Is ever welcomed in.

And

say

not that my guilt is great—

I know, I feel 'tis true;

But while I groan beneath its weight,

I hope for pardon too.
Beyond the reach of grace Divine
Myself I have not thrown;

And once, at least, to guilt like mine
My Lord has mercy shown.

When such a wandering sheep as I
Was unto Jesus brought,
And all the cruel standers-by

A rigid sentence sought;

The feeble reed He would not break, Though it was bruised sore;

The gentle words the Saviour spake

Were, "Go, and sin no more!"

ON AN INFANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING.

CLARE.

As fearless as a cherub's rest
Now safe above the cloud,
A babe lay on its mother's breast
When thunders roar'd aloud.

It started not to hear the crash,

But held its little hand

Up, at the lightning's fearful flash,

To catch the burning brand.

The tender mother stay'd her breath

In more than grief awhile,

To think the thing that brought its death

Should cause her babe to smile.

Ay! it did smile a heavenly smile

To see the lightning play;

Well might she shriek when it turn'd pale,
And yet it smiled in clay.