Che Present.

"IT is something to learn to live in the present: to feel, that the present duty, pleasure, circumstance, is alone good and wonderful; we say, if we were only differently placed, life would be so interesting; if we were in such or such a position, then should we be intellectual, or amiable, or useful: or if this or that event should happen to us, then should we be elated and happy. It is all a mistake. That very event, or position, if possessed by us, would look just as little extraordinary as that we are now in: situations not our own, lie before us like a landscape view: every part, however mean in detail, goes to contribute to the effect of the whole, and shares in its ideal character: but we cannot see the picture of which we ourselves form a part. We do not know, that the day, the hour, the employment, the incident, before which we, in our own persons stand, and that looks perhaps so worn and dusty, is in reality an inexhaustable well of truth, could we but wipe from our eyes the blinding dust of familiarity. For life to cease to be poor and common-place, and become intrinsically rich and wonderful, we must realise, that if it is as a whole, the gift of God, then all the parts must so be; if relation to parents, friends, society, are of divine appointment, then every thing flowing out of this relation, intercourse and influence, are of divine appointment. How grand and mystic then, is this every-day life! It is inlaid with divinity, as black oak inlaid with gold: and David utters a literal fact when he speaks of his "down-sitting and uprising," as encompassed by God.

FRIENDS may have the same tastes, but different talents.

Che Synagogue.

"BUT even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart: nevertheless when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away." ST. PAUL.

I SAW them in their synagogue, as in their ancient day;
And never from my memory, the scene will
pass away:
For, on my dazzled vision still, the latticed galleries shine,
With Israel's loveliest daughters, in their beauty half divine.
It is the quiet Sabbath eve-the solitary light

Sheds mingled with the hues of day, a lustre nothing bright;
On swarthy brow and piercing glance, it falls with saddening

tinge,

And dimly gilds the Pharisees' phylacteries and fringe!

The two leaved doors slide slow apart, before the eastern screen,
As rise the Hebrew harmonies, with chanted prayers between:
And 'mid the tissued veils disclosed, of many a gorgeous dye,
Enveloped in the jewelled scarfs, the sacred relics lie.
Robed in his sacerdotal robes, a hoary headed man,
With voice of solemn cadence, o'er the backward letters ran.
And often yet, methinks I see the glow and power, which sate,
Upon his face, as forth he spread, the roll immaculate!
And fervently that hour I prayed, that, from the mighty scroll,
Its light, in burning characters, might break on every soul.
That from their hardened hearts, the veil, might be no longer
dark,

But be forever rent in twain, like that before the ark.

For yet the tenfold film shall fall, Oh Judah! from thy sight,
And every eye be purged to read thy testimonies right!
When thou, with all Messiah's signs, in Christ distinctly seen,
Shall by Jehovah's nameless name, invoke the Nazarine!

WM. CROSSWell.

Co Liagara.

FROM LINES WRITTEN AT THE FIRST VIEW OF THE FALLS, AUG. 13, 1838, BY J. S. BUCKINGHAM.

HAIL! monarch of the world of floods, whose majesty and might,
First dazzles, then enraptures, then o'erawes the aching sight.
The pomp of kings and emperors in every clime and zone,
Grows dim beneath the splendour of thy glorious watery throne.

No fleets can stop thy progress, no armies bid thee stay-
But onward, onward, onward, thy march still holds its way.
The rising mist that veils thee, as thy herald goes before ;
The music that proclaims thee, is the thundering cataract's roar.

Thy diadem an emerald green, of the clearest, purest hue,
Set round with wreaths of snow-white foam and spray of feathery

dew;

While tresses of the brightest pearls float o'er thine ample sheet, And the rainbow lays its gorgeous gems in tribute at thy feet.

And whether, on thy forest banks, the Indian of the wood,
Or since his day, the red man's foe on his father-land have stood;
Whoe'er has seen thine incense rise, or heard thy torrent's roar,
Must have bent before the God of all, to worship and adore.

Accept, Oh thou Supremely Great! Oh Infinite! Oh, God!
From this primeval altar, the pure and virgin sod,

The humble homage that my soul in gratitude would pay

To Thee! whose shield has guarded me in all my wandering

way.

For if the ocean be as nought in the hollow of thine hand,
And the stars of the firmament, in thy balance, grains of sand;

To NIAGARA.

If Niagara's flood seem great to us who humbly bow,
Oh! great Creator of the whole, how passing great art Thou!

263

But tho' thy power is far more vast than finite man can scan,
Still greater is thy mercy shown to weak, dependent man-
For him Thou cloth'st the fertile globe with herbs, and fruit, and
seed,

For him the seas, the lakes, the streams, supply his homely need.

Around, on high, or far, or near, the universal whole

Proclaims thy glory, as the orbs in their fixed courses roll;
And from creation's grateful voice the hymn ascends above,
While heaven re-echoes back to earth, the chorus, "God is Love."

Ir is easy to produce sentiments which will fall harmoniously on the ear, and charm the sense, without benefitting the heart or understanding. It is not difficult to repeat axioms of virtue with mathematical precision and undoubted accuracy: but to unite axioms of goodness to beauty of language, and novelty of expression to give invitations to virtue, in originality of thought, and loveliness of language-Oh, this is a talent which good men must desire for its usefulness.

TRUTH is a gem which need not be enchased-which, faultless and cloudless, may be held up to the pure bright light on any side, in any direction, and will everywhere display the same purity and soundness and beauty.

A Memorial of Mary Dyer.

ONE OF THE EARLY WORTHIES AND MARTYRS IN THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS.-BY BERNARD BARTON.

WE too have had our martyrs. Such wert thou,
Illustrious woman! though the starry crown
Of martydom has sate on many a brow,

In the world's eye, of far more wide renown.

Yet the same spirit grac'd thy fameless end,

Which shone in Latimer and his compeers;
Upon whose hallow'd memories still attend

Manhood's warm reverence, childhood's guileless tears.

Well did they win them: may they keep them long!
Their names require not praise obscure as mine;
Nor does my muse their cherish'd memories wrong,
By this imperfect aim to honour thine.

Heroic martyr of a sect despis'd!

Thy name and memory to my heart are dear
Thy fearless zeal, in artless childhood priz'd,
The lapse of years has taught me to revere.

Thy Christian worth demands no poet's lay,
Historian's pen, nor sculptor's boasted art:
What could the brightest tribute these can pay
To thy immortal spirit now impart?

Yet seems it like a sacred debt to give

The brief memorial thou mayst well supply;
Whose life display'd how Christians ought to live;
Whose death-how Christian martyrs calmly die.