Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd,
And forth the stripling came,
Bright beauty on his ruddy brow,
Like morn's enkindling flame.

"Give music," said the moody king,
Nor rais'd his gloomy eye,
"Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp,
And wake its melody."

He thought upon his father's flock,
Which long, in pastures green,
He led, while flow'd, with silver sound,
Clear rivulets between.

He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies,
Beneath whose liquid rays

He gaz'd upon the glorious arch,
And sang its Maker's praise.

Then boldly o'er the sacred harp
He pour'd, in thrilling strain,
The prompting of a joyous heart,
That knew nor care nor pain.

The monarch, leaning on his hand,
Drank long the wondrous lay;
And clouds were lifted from his brow,
As when the sunbeams play.

The purple o'er his heaving breast,
That throbb'd so wild, grew still,

And Saul's clear eye glanc'd out, as when
He did Jehovah's will.

O ye who feel the prison fumes
Of earth's fermenting care

Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim
What heaven created fair,

Ask music from a guileless heart,

High tones, with sweetness fraught,
And, by that amulet divine,
Subdue the sinful thought.

LUTHER'S CELEBRATED HYMN.*

A MIGHTY fortress is our God,
A good defence and armour.

He helps us freely from our trouble,
Us assailing e'en to the present hour.
The old bad fiend now

Right zealously is plotting;
Great power and cunning
Are his cruel equipping ;
On earth there's not his equal.

With our own might is nothing done;
Quite soon are we in misery cast down.
There fights for us the righteous Man
Whom God himself has chosen.
Ask'st thou who he is ?

His name is Jesus Christ,
The Lord of Sabaoth,

And none else is God;

The field he must maintain.

* A plain and faithful Translation of Luther's "Ein feste burg ist unser Gott."

And though the world full of devils were,
And they would swallow us quite up,

Still would we not greatly fear-
Success shall yet be ours.

The prince of this world,
How fierce soe'er his blows,

He against us still nothing does:
This is because he's judged;

A little word can fell him.

The word they have to let alone,
And no thanks have they therefore ;
He is with us upon the plain,
With his Spirit and gifts;

Let them take from us bodily life,
Goods, honour, child, and wife;
Let them go hence,

They have nothing for their pains;

To us the Kingdom still remains.

A TRADITION OF THE VAUDOIS.*

"OH! lady fair, these silks of mine

Are beautiful and rare,

The richest web of Indian loom,

Which Beauty's self might wear;

*These poor mountaineers used to go out in the character of pedlars, that they might give away the Word of God secretly. Long, long before a Bible Society was formed or thought of, these poor pious men went up and down the mountains and valleys in the character of pedlars, in order to distribute the Word of God!

And these pearls are pure and mild to behold,
And with radiant light they vie;

I have brought them with me a weary way,
Will my gentle lady buy ?”

And the lady smiled on the worn old man,
Through the dark and clustering curls
Which veiled her brow, as she stooped to view
His silks and glittering pearls.

And she placed their price in the old man's hand, And lightly she turned away;

But she paused, at the wanderer's earnest call,

"My gentle lady, stay!

“Oh! lady fair, I have yet a gem,
Which a purer lustre flings

Than the diamond-flash of the jewell'd crown
On the lofty brow of kings;
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price,
Whose virtue shall not decay,
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee,
And a blessing on thy way!"

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel,
Where her youthful form was seen,

Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks waved
Her clasping pearls between ;

Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth,

Thou traveller grey and old,

And name the price of thy precious gem,
And my pages shall count the gold! ”

The cloud went off the pilgrim's brow,
As a small and meagre book,
Unchased by gold or diamond gem,

From his folding robe he took ;
"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price,
May it prove as such to thee!
Nay, keep thy gold, I ask it not,
For the Word of God is free!"

The hoary traveller went his way,
But the gift he left behind

Hath had its pure and perfect work
On the high-born maiden's mind;
And she hath turned from her pride of sin
To the loveliness of truth,

And given her human heart to God
In the beauteous hour of youth.

And she hath left the old grey halls
Where an evil faith had power,

And the courtly knights of her father's train,
And the maidens of her bower;

And she hath gone to the Vaudois vale,
By lordly feet untrod,

Where the poor and needy of earth are rich
In the perfect love of God!