where is fulness of joy, and to His right hand, where there are pleasures for evermore. She could say with the Apostle," I know that if the earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, I have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."
She frequently desired her attendants to leave the room, that she might enjoy uninterrupted communion with God. On being asked if she was happy, and being unable to articulate, she immediately raised her hand in token of victory. A few minutes before her departure, with outstretched arms, and in a most emphatic manner, she exclaimed, "Come, Jesus! come, Jesus!" These were her last words; and thus her happy spirit winged its way to mingle with the blood-washed throng in the more immediate presence of her God. WILLIAM CARLTON.
POETRY.
A MOTHER'S GIFT.
REMEMBER, love, who gave thee this,
When other days shall come;
When she who had thy earliest kiss
Sleeps in her narrow home :
Remember, 'twas a Mother gave
The gift to one she'd die to save.
That Mother sought a pledge of love,
The holiest, for her son;
And from the gifts of God above,
She chose a goodly one:
She chose for her beloved boy
The source of light and life and joy.
And bade him keep the gift, that when
The parting hour should come,
They might have hope to meet again,
In an eternal home:
She said his faith in it would be
Sweet incense to her memory.
And should the scoffer in his pride
Laugh that fond faith to scorn,
And bid him cast the pledge aside,
Which he from youth had borne;
She bade him pause, and ask his breast,
If he, or she, had loved him best.
A parent's blessing on her son
Goes with this lovely thing;
The love that would retain the one,
Must to the other cling:
Remember, 'tis no idle toy,
ON SEEING THE PORTRAIT OF THE REV. JOHN
THOU man of God! thou chosen of the Lord!
And faithful servant of his gracious word;
Ambassador of peace, of joy, and love,
And guide of sinners to the realms above;
Those outlines of a form that once enshrined
The bright resemblance of a Saviour's mind,
Enrapture more my gazing eyes and heart,
Than sculptured marble wrought with Grecian art.
Angelic sweetness on those features plays,
And beams seraphic shed their milder rays.
Methinks the gracious smiles which on them rest,
Bespeak the language of thy pious breast,
When, in communion with thy God alone,
By soaring faith thou view'st the dazzling throne,
Where angels and archangels ceaseless praise
The Triune God, and on his glories gaze.
'Twas there, methinks, when high on eagles' wings
Thy spirit rose to feast on heavenly things;
'Twas there, while gazing on the glorious throng,
On which thy ravish'd eyes would linger long,
There thou attain'dst the' angelic look thou bear'st,
There from thy Saviour caught the smile thou wear'st.
The darling theme on which thou lovedst to dwell,
In which thy highest, richest notes would swell,
Was when, with melting, energetic tongue,
Thou spakest of mercy to the listening throng.
Mercy to sinners oft thy tongue employ'd,
And oft thou threw'st the door of mercy wide;
When on that theme thy cheering words would dart
Like rays of light across the mourner's heart.
Oft in the ardour of pathetic zeal
Thy soul renew'd, inspiring grace would feel;
And from the star of mild persuasive sense
Expand into a sun of eloquence;
Thus would thy lofty strains sublimely rise,
And thus ascending reach their native skies.
When from the noisy world thou didst repair,
To plead for sinners in the earnest prayer,
Prostrate before thy God thou wouldst implore
Grace for thy flock that they might sin no more;
While sighs and groans for them, and copious showers
Of fruitful tears, engaged thy closet hours.
But thou art gone! No longer could thy soul,
So link'd to heaven, with mortal clay enrol,
But burst its chain, and took immortal flight,
And while the angel-choir around their Lord
Swell'd the high notes, receiv'dst thy full reward;
And near the throne, amid the dazzling throng,
To lofty strains thy golden harp is strung.
And now in high and sweet melodious tone,
Thou sing'st the praises of the great Three-One!
Yes! thou art gone, as brilliant lights expire
From earthly eyes, to join the heavenly choir.
But did thy setting sun reflect no gleams
Of glowing light, save what our fancy dreams?
O yes! it set resplendently around,
And gilded far and wide the sacred ground;
E'en yet the gazing eye may fondly trace
Beams of its glory; for from race to race,
Like royal lineage, shall descend thy name,
And rising youth explore thy letter'd fame;
Lured by thy bright example, wing their way,
To join thee in the beauteous realms of day.
And may the Saviour grant my earnest prayer,
That I, with all thy flock, may meet thee there.
Lewisham, March 26, 1833.
'Tis not in the harp's soft melting tone
That music and harmony dwell alone;
'Tis not in the voice so tender and clear,
That comes like an angel's voice on the ear;
They both are sweet, but o'er dale and hill
For me there's as beautiful music still.
I hear it in every murmuring breath
That waves the bells of the purple heath;
In the watch-dog's bark, in the shepherd's song,
In the rustic's laugh, as it echoes along;
In the whizzing sound of the wild-bird's wing
There's music! there's music in every thing!
There's music in the evening breeze,
When it sweeps the blossoms from the trees,
And wafts them into the moon-lit heaven,
Like fairy barks from their anchors driven,
And they through the clear and cloudless night
Float in a waveless sea of light!
There's music too when the winds are high,
And the clouds are sailing through the sky;
When the ocean foams and lashes the shore,
Then, then, in the tempest's jubilee,
There's music, and beauty, and grandeur for me!
There's music, sweet music, where insects play,
When they burst into life and the light of day,
And shake such sounds from their shining wings
As the wind makes in murmuring over harp-strings;
In the songs of the birds, in the rippling streams,
O, these are such sounds as we hear in our dreams!
There's music most blest in the house of prayer,
O the sweetest and loveliest of music is there!
While innocent voices together blend
And their mingled tones above ascend;
There is the holiest music given
From the heart's warm altar up to heaven!
THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
FATHER, guide me! day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sun-set shore.
Now the sailor's vesper hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim
In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempest nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade,
O'er the wild,
O! be thou the lone one's aid,-
Save thy child!
Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
From the chesnut's ruddy bark;
And the pool's now low and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste,-
God of might!
Shield the homeless midst the waste,
Be his light!
In his distant cradle-nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems,
With a glow of heavenly dreams;
Beautiful o'er that bright sleep
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray,
For the loved and far away.
Father! guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power
Lead me there!
Darker, wilder, grows the night,-
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade,
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,-
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that blest head
Father! through the time of dread,
Save, O, save!
THE evening sky,-the evening sky,-
How bright its glories are;
Exciting thoughts of things that lie
Above yon radiant star!
The thoughts our spirits burn to know
Will never here be given;
The fountain whence true pleasures flow
Is only found in heaven.
When we have slept that dreamless sleep
Which dearest hearts must sever,
O may we wake no more to weep,
But live in bliss for ever.
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