The theme will give the power-before unknown, And the full heart roll out the tide of fong,

Poured by the deaf and dumb.

C. J.

XLII.

THE SABBATH.

ABBATH hours! they come and go
Like the fummer ftreamlet's flow,
Bringing to the waste relief,

Beautiful, but oh! too brief;
Sparkling in the golden ray,

Iris-coloured-then away!
Yet fertility is feen

Fresher, where the ftream hath been.

Sabbath hours! ye come between,

Like an iflet's emerald green,
Rifing o'er life's ftormy fea,
Where its wearied ones may flee;

Catching, from its tide-wafhed ftrand,
Vifions of their father-land,

Till they deem the foft winds come,
Breathing melodies from home.

May the Sabbath ever be,
Harbinger of good to me!
Calling up my foul from earth-
Fixing it on things of worth.

Swiftly do its funbeams fly,
O'er this changing wintry sky:
And, in Heaven's fabbatic bowers,
I fhall praise Thee for thefe hours.

XLIII.

THE SABBATH.

HERE'S mufic in the morning air,
A holy voice and sweet,

For calling to the Houfe of Prayer
The humbleft peafant's feet.

From hill and vale, and distant moor,

Long as the chime is heard,

Each cottage fends its tenants poor,

For God's enriching Word.

Still where the British power hath trod,

The crofs of faith afcends; And like a radiant arch of God,

The light of Scripture bends! Deep in the foreft wilderness,

The wood-built Church is known; A fheltering wing in man's diftrefs, Spread like the Saviour's own!

Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent,
In Chriftian nations wide,-

Thousands and tens of thousands bring,
Their forrows to His fhrine,

And tafte the never-failing spring
Of Jefus' love divine!

If at an earthly chime the tread
Of million, million feet,
Approach where'er the Gofpel's read,
In God's own temple feat;

How bleft the fight, from death's dark fleep,

To fee God's faints arife,

And countless hofts of angels keep

The Sabbath of the Skies!

XLIV.

HOLY SORROW.

H! Thou, that drieft the mourner's

tear,

How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!

The friends, who in our funshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;

And he who has but tears to give
Muft weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal the broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer foothes or cheers,
And even hope, that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimmed and vanished too,

Oh! who could bear life's ftormy doom,
Did not Thy Word of love

Come brightly bearing, through the gloom,

A peace-branch from above?

Then forrow, touched by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray,

As darkness shows us worlds of light

We could not fee by day.

THOMAS Moore.

XLV.

HOLY SORROW.

HEN fore afflictions crufh the foul,
And riven is every earthly tie,
The heart muft cling to God alone,
He wipes the tear from ev'ry eye.

Through wakeful nights, when rack'd with pain,
On bed of languishing you lie,
Remember still your God is near,
To wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

A few fhort years and all is o'er,

Your forrow-pain-will foon pass by;
Then lean in faith on God's dear Son,
He'll wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

Oh! never be your foul caft down,
Nor let your heart defponding figh;
Affur'd that God, whofe name is love,
Will wipe the tear from ev'ry eye.

MRS. MACKINLAY.

N