The Missionary.-W. B. TAPPAN.

ONWARD, ye men of prayer!

Scatter, in rich exuberance, the seed,
Whose fruit is living bread, and all your need
Will God supply; his harvest ye shall share.

To him, child of the bow,

The wanderer of his native Oregon,

Tell of that Jesus, who, in dying, won

The peace-branch of the skies-salvation for His foe!

Unfurl the banneret

On other shores,-Messiah's cross bid shine

O'er every lovely hill of Palestine;

Fair stars of glory that shall never set.

Seek ye the far-off isle;

The sullied jewel of the deep,

O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep,
Restore its lustre, and to God give spoil.

Go, break the chain of caste;

Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more
The Indian river roll its waves of gore;
Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast.

To heal the bruised, speed;

Oh, pour on Africa the balm

Of Gilead, and, her agony to calm,

Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed.

And thou, O Church, betake

Thyself to watching, labour-help these men:

God shall thee visit of a surety, when

Thou'rt faithful: Church that Jesus bought, awake, awake!

Missions.-MRS. SIGOURNEY

LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador!

Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,

And the mariner wakes no more;

Lift high the lamp that never fails,
To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child!

An outcast though he be,

From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled,

And the country of the free;

Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,
For what home on earth has he?

Light for the hills of Greece!
Light for that trampled clime

Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease
Ere it wrecked the boast of time;

If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol-train,

The flame of the suttee is dire and red,
And the fakir faints with pain,

And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges laved in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armor when Death invades ;

Hark! Hark! 'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh
From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales!

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,

And her kidnapped babes the mother wails

'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exiled from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roam from place to place,

Benighted and oppressed;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base;
Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darkened earth!

Ye blessed, its beams who shed,

Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,

Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread
Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,

shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,
And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,

For the aged to rest his weary head.

The Fear of Madness.*-LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THERE is a something which I dread;
It is a dark, a fearful thing;

It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death,-'tis more,-
It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still,
A tenant of its lowly bed;
But let not dark delirium steal-

The Matin Hour of Prayer.-ANONYMOUS.

THIS cool and fragrant hour of prime,
Unvexed by life's intrusive care,
My matin hour of praise shall be,

Sweet, solitary praise, and prayer.

*These lines, expressing her fears of insanity, were written by this interesting girl while confined to her bed in the last stage of consumption. They were unfinished, and the last she ever composed.-ED.

'Twill gird my spirit for the fight,

The glare, the strife, of this world's way; Weak, tempted, weary, lone, and sad,— "Tis never, never vain to pray.

This cool and fragrant hour of prime;
The silent stars are fading quite ;
The moist air gently stirs the leaves,
Dew-laden, to the breaking light.

The stillness, the repose, the peace,
They win the quiet soul away,
To visit that Elysian world,

Where breaketh an eternal day.

Ere falls the stealing step of dawn,

The night's soft dew on her brown wings, Upriseth from her nest the lark,

And, soaring to the sunlight, sings.

Thus may my soul sing on, and soar

Where sight tracks not her flight sublime, Morn, noon, sweet eve, and ever in

This cool and fragrant hour of prime.

For, though the world enclose me round,
Strong Faith can carry me abroad,
Where shines my home,-Jerusalem,
The glorious dwelling-place of God!

Then let my soul sing on, and soar
Above the world, beyond all time,
And dwell in that pure light, and breathe
The air from that celestial clime.

Sing on and soar, sing on and soar,

Till, through the crystal gates of heaven,

No longer closed in upper skies,

Thou enter in to sing, Forgiven!

Song.*-FROM YAMOYDEN.

SLEEP, child of my love! be thy slumber as light
As the red birds that nestle secure on the spray;
Be the visions that visit thee fairy and bright

As the dew drops that sparkle around with the ray.

0, soft flows the breath from thine innocent breast;
In the wild wood Sleep cradles in roses thy head;
But her who protects thee, a wanderer unblessed,
He forsakes, or surrounds with his phantoms of dread.

I fear for thy father! why stays he so long

On the shores where the wife of the giant was thrown, And the sailor oft lingered to hearken her song,

So sad o'er the wave, e'er she hardened to stone.

He skims the blue tide in his birchen canoe,

Where the foe in the moon-beams his path may descry, The ball to its scope may speed rapid and true,

And lost in the wave be thy father's death cry!

The Power that is round us-whose presence is near,
In the gloom and the solitude felt by the soul-
Protect that lone bark in its lonely career,

And shield thee, when roughly life's billows shall roll!

Solitude.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

DEEP solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught,
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife
And fever of the world. I thought to be

*We cannot_determine whether the authorship of this beautiful song belongs to Mr. Eastburn or Mr. Sands. From a comparison of its character with that of some other pieces by Mr. Eastburn, which the reader will find in this volume, we should be inclined to attribute it to him. He and his friend were but youthful poets when Yamoyden was composed; the former being but twenty-two, the latter only eighteen.-ED.