The solemn ceremonial past, To serve the Lord, from first to last, And I have sworn, with pledges dire, To speak the holy truth entire, O Thou, who in thy holy place That so, replenished from above, And in my office tried, Thou mayst be honored, and in love THE thickly-woven boughs they wreathe A soft, reviving odor breathe Of summer's gentle reign; ray Which, like an emerald's glow, Comes struggling through the latticed height Upon the crowds below. O, let the streams of solemn thought From deeper sources spring than aught Then, though the summer's pride departs. Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts WITH awful dread his murderers shook, The lustre of his dying look Was like an angel's seen; Or Moses' face of paly light, When down the mount he trod, All glowing from the glorious sight And presence of his God. To us, with all his constancy, To look above by faith, and see Revealments bright of heaven. And power to speak our triumphs out, While neither clouds of fear nor doubt THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING. WE come not with a costly store, From Ophir's shore of gold: No odorous myrrh of Araby But still our love would bring its best, By fierce affliction's fiery test, And seven times purified: The fragrant graces of the mind, To give their perfume out, will find Acceptance in thy sight. JOHN G. WHITTIER, A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, and one of the most brilliant poets of the age, was born in 1808, at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where he now resides. A complete collection of his works has just been published in one large octavo volume, with illustrative engravings, by B. B. Mussey & Co. of Boston. PALESTINE. BLEST land of Judea! thrice hallowed of song, Blue sea of the hills!-in my spirit I hear Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee! Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong, Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, There, down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, With the mountains around ana the valleys between; And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod : O, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came- And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, O, the outward hath gone!-but, in glory and power, On the heart's secret altar is burning the same! THE FEMALE MARTYR. MARY G―, aged 18, a "Sister of Charity," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance on the sick. "BRING out your dead!" the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, "What! only one!" the brutal hackman said, As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall! To hear it and to die! Onward it rolled; while oft the driver stayed, It paused beside the burial-place : "Toss in your load!" and it was done. With quick hand and averted face, Hastily to the grave's embrace They cast them, one by one Stranger and friend-the evil and the just, |