Ye fair, by nature formed to move, Let take up age Sing His blest Name, then soar away, OGILVIE. THE bell strikes one. But from his loss. Is wise in man. TIME. We take no note of time I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. How much is to be done! my hopes and fears A fathomless abyss ! A dread eternity! How surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? YOUNG. THE EMANCIPATION OF THE NEGROES. HIE to the mountains afar, All in the cool of the even, Led by yon beautiful star, First of the bright lights of heaven. Sweet to the slave is the season of rest: Something far sweeter he looks for to-night: His heart lies awake in the depth of his breast, And listens till GOD shall say, "Let there be light." Climb we the mountain, and stand Fresh from our old father-land, Balm in the ocean home gale. Darkness yet covers the face of the deep, Gaze we awhile from this peak, Praying in thought while we gaze, Watch for the dawning's first streak ; Prayer then be turned into praise. Shout to the valleys, behold ye the morn, Long, long desired, but denied to our sight! Lo! myriads of slaves into men are new born; His word was omnipotent, "Let there be light.” Hear it and hail it: the call Island to island prolong: Liberty, liberty! all Join in that jubilee song. Hark! 'tis the children's hosannahs that ring! "MY HOME IS NOT HERE." WHEN I gaze on the light of yon beautiful sky, When I see all around me those flowers so bright, When I list to the song of the lark as she flies, O land of enjoyment! O home of my heart! ON THE BIRTHDAY OF A DEPARTED FATHER. AH! where is the harp that was strung to thy praise, So softly, so sweetly, in happier days? When the tears that we shed were the tears of our joy, And the pleasures of home were unmixed with alloy. The harp is now mute; its last breathings are spoken, And the cord, though 'twas threefold, is now, alas! broken; Yet why should we murmur, short sighted and vain, Since death to that loved one was undying gain? Ah! fools, shall we grieve that he left this poor scene, And though sweetly he sung of his Father on earth, As he sings to his merciful Father in Heaven. M' CHEYNE. THE DYING CHRISTIAN. DEATHLESS principle, arise, Lo! He beckons from on high, |