Shew the fair garden, or sparkling mine,

Where such perfections or such glories shine.

Search earth's rich valleys if such fruits be there—
Ask Ocean's depths if gems so pure they bear?

Loud cries the Deep—" wisdom is not in me”.
And Earth to Heaven concedes the mystery.*
Thou read'st the records of remotest time—

Can'st tell th' events of every age and clime-
With fond credulity believ'st the whole-

All but the record that would save thy soul!

O madness exquisite ! from words refrain,

To morbid vision strongest light is vain!

* And where shall wisdom be found? and where is the place of understanding? Man knoweth not the price thereof ; neither is it found in the land of the living. The depth saith, It is not in me; and the sea saith, It is not with me. Job, ch. xxviii. v. 12.

Others there are-nay thousands-to their shame,

Who know their Saviour only by his name;

O'er Scripture-paths who never fondly rove

With admiration, gratitude, and love;

Who live as if this life would ever last;

Heed not the future, nor regret the past;

Make-rashly make-this transient world their home,

And dare provide not for a world to come!

Whence such delusion? whence the senseless dream

This strange indifference to the awful theme?

Alas! shall we, most honour'd here below,

The most forget whence all our honours flow?

Yet so it is; and since this orb began,

The greatest ingrate it sustains, is man!

Tell not the wood-crown'd hills the wondrous tale;

Pour not Redemption to the blooming vale;
Or-were each branch a pen, each leaf a tongue,
And mute creation had the power of song,

Hymns, full of gratitude, to Heav'n they 'd raise,
And swell the note of universal praise!

O faithless people! on whose favour'd shore

Such gifts, such blessings God has deign'd to pour, Where Revelation still is wont to shine,

And guide our footsteps with a light divine;

Shall we diffuse the truth's meridian ray,

To pierce the films that dim the heathen day,

And walk ourselves in error's darkest way?

Alas! the Pagan we presume to guide

Shall stand a man superior by our side.

He, who the name of Christ has never known, Who knows no God but that of wood and stone,

With sacred awe his Juggernaut reveres,

Entrusts to him his future hopes and fears;
For him rejoices death itself to feel,

And courts the crush of his advancing wheel!
Whilst we, who hold the Gospel in our hands,
Profess our faith in its divine commands,

In every tongue the Christian truth proclaim,
And boast the title of the Christian name,
Act worse than aliens to the gracious code,
And scarcely reverence the Living God!

Daughter of Albion! of thy crimes beware,

Lest thou the judgments of thy God should'st share!

Lest thy dull ear be waken'd by the sound

"Lift! lift! the axe-why cumb'reth it the ground?"

The blossom, that to-day sheds sweet perfume,
Ere dawns to-morrow may have ceas'd to bloom;
Some sudden blast-some unexpected show'r-
May break the stem, or crush the tender flow'r:
And can'st thou call one future hour thine own,
More than the flowers that flourish and are gone!
What though thy flag rides Mistress of the Main,
Dy'd-deeply dy'd-with many a deathful stain;

What though thy pride would every bound despise,
And mount a second Babel to the skies;