Save where upon another's head
To-morrow's sun may shine,

Yet still I look with hope's calm eye,

Through Heaven's unbounded love,

To find, in mansions of the sky,
An Endless HOME above.

Sonnet,
Inscribed at foot of a

MAP OF GREAT BRITAIN.

Mighty Britain! Isle of glory!

Land of freedom,—land of love!
Future bards shall tune thy story,
Ages yet unborn to move.
They shall tell how Victory bore thee

Rampant in her red right hand,

How Earth's proud ones crouched before thee,

Thine to trample or command.

In thy varied climes comprising

Fronts of white and brows of jet, Yonder sun, so brightly rising,

On thy Flag can never set,

That Flag that proudly floats unfurl'd,
And bids defiance to a UNION'D WORLD!

To an Old Newspaper.

The man, who can take up an old newspaper, and lay it down again, without having derived any benefit therefrom, is scarcely libelled by being called a fool.-Tillotson.

Come hither, thou old chronicle!

The wrinkles in thy face

And the thumb-stains on thy margin
Proclaim thine ancient race.

Thou art a worthy monitor

Of what we'll be at last,-
Sad relic of the days gone by,
Memento of the past!

Thou tell'st the Auctioneer was wont,

As now, by roup to sell,

But of the buyers and the bought

How little dost thou tell?

Where's now that worthy Auctioneer,

His hammer, and his gown?
Death came when he had just set up,*
And coolly knocked him down.

And where's the Merchant's dwelling,
That blarneys here so strong?
There scarce remains a stone to mark
The store he held so long.

Or where's that wealthy Merchant,

So portly and so bluff?

Death came to him when puffing,

And robbed him of his puff.

Or, where's the legal advocate,
That's pleading here his cause,
As if he knew by rote each page
Of Blackstone on the laws?
He seems as if 'twere in his eye
The bench one day to fill;
But Fate deciding otherwise,
Refused to find the bill.

Thine Editor-the mighty man

That used the awful "WE,"

Beneath whose lash even great ones shrunk In terror,-where is he?

His

pen is long since laid aside,

His bulletins that hurled;

His notions were too liberal

For such a narrow world.

And where are all those ministers,-
The measures they propose,

As the only panacea

For all the nation's woes?

Each has got of earth his measure

A century gone by,

And such will be the fortune,

Reader, of you and I.

A Scene at Bethany.

The purport of a Sermon preached in St. Michael's Church, by the Rev. Charles S. Stanford.

66 JESUS WEPT."

When JESUS came that village near,
And stood the sepulchre beside,
He groaned with agony to hear

The news of woe,-his friend had died.
He thought upon the heart now cold,
That lately beat in flush of youth,-
Virtue's pure temple, and the fold

Of holy Friendship, Love, and Truth..
And though he knew that in his hand
The dead were but as those that slept,
His voice, all powerful to command,
Was drowned in sorrow,-Jesus wept.

His mind reverted to that home,
Which he so oft in peace had left,
Now silent as the narrow tomb,
Of all its earthly joy bereft,-
And the kind sisters in his view,

Grieving for him who came no more;
For could they help it, tho' they knew
He was "not lost, but gone before,"
And as he thought how Mary's faith,
Who often to his knees had crept,
Would not be perfect until Death

Had reigned o'er her too,-Jesus wept.

He saw the unbelieving Jews,

Who stood in mourning groups around; And could he then the tears refuse

Which in humanity he found?—

To think that they his Word had scorned,
His faith rejected and disdained,
His doctrine and his person spurned,-
In prejudicial darkness chained,
He turned him toward Jerusalem,
Where still in sin so many slept;

He felt his death must come by them—
His chosen people ;-Jesus wept.

He'd seen the Earth's foundations laid,
And heard the choir of Cherubin

Sing songs of praise, ere Death had made
Our race, his victims thro' our sin.
Fresh in his memory lived the hour,
When he had smiled on Paradise,

Or ever Satan's subtle power

Had breathed his wiles, and taught us vice. And as he thought how mankind loved

To wallow in their crimes, nor kept God's high commands, till Justice proved Too strong for Mercy,-Jesus wept.

The friends of Lazarus saw his tears;

"See how he loved him!" each one cried;—

Oh, how it JESU's name endears,

That for our guilt he freely died?