MISSIONARY HYMN.

From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains, Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile;
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen, in his blindness,
Bows down to wood and stone.

Can we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim
Till each remotest nation

Has learned Messiah's Name.

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till like a sea of glory

It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransomed nature
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,

In bliss returns to reign.

HOPE FOR THE DEAD.

Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb: The Saviour hath passed through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave: we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died!

Thou art gone to the grave: and, its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;
But the mild rays of Paradise beamed on thy waking,
And the sound which thou heard'st was the seraphim's
song!

Thou art gone to the grave: but we will not deplore thee;

Whose God was thy Ransom, thy Guardian, and

Guide!

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee; And death has no sting, for the Saviour hath died!

ROBERT POLLOK was born in 1799, at Muirhouse, in the parish of Eaglesham, in Renfrewshire, and after receiving his preparatory education in the parish school,

entered as a student of the University of Glasgow. He went through a five-years' course of theological study to fit himself for the ministry of the Scottish Secession Church. Scarcely had he been admitted as a licentiate and published his "Course of Time," before the effects of hard study manifested themselves in a strong tendency to pulmonary consumption. He sought recovery in the south of England; and died, after having at first shown some fugitive signs of improvement, at Shirley Common, near Southampton, Sept. 15th, 1827. Whilst at College, Pollok wrote a series of "Tales of the Covenanters,” which he published anonymously. The "Course of Time" is a poem of much grandeur, in which a bard of earth recounts to a select assembly of the sons of heaven, who had been gathered from various worlds, the fortunes of his native planet. The mechanism of the poem is a little cumbrous; the feeling is intense and not seldom grim and gloomy, the rhythm is often wantonly faulty and broken, and the author relies for the effect of his style upon directness and iteration, in even a greater degree-if that were possible-than did Young upon the epigrammatic and paradoxical.

HAPPINESS.

Whether in crowds or solitudes, in streets
Or shady groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems
In vain to ask-her nature makes it vain ;
Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sang
Of brooks, and crystal founts, and weeping dews,
And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales,

And with the nymph made assignations there,
And wooed her with a lovesick oaten reed;
And sages too, although less positive,

Advised their sons to court her in the shade.
Delirious babble all! Was happiness,

Was self-approving, God-approving joy,
In drops of dew, however pure? in gales,
However sweet? in wells, however clear?
Or groves, however thick with verdant shade ?

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair : How fair at morn and even! worthy the walk Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss, But were the occasion, not the cause of joy. They waked the native fountains of the soul, Which slept before; and stirred the holy sides Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink, From its own treasures, draughts of perfect sweet. The Christian faith, which better knew the heart Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there; Who finds it not, for ever let him seek In vain-'tis God's most holy, changeless will.

True Happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where duty went, she went; with justice went,
And went with meekness, charity, and love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruiséd spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured, and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.

But these apart. In sacred memory lives The morn of life, first morn of endless daysMost joyful morn! nor yet for nought the joy. A being of eternal date commenced;

A young immortal then was born; and who
Shall tell what strange variety of bliss
Burst on the infant soul, when first it looked
Abroad on God's creation fair, and saw

The glorious earth, and glorious heaven, and face
Of man sublime! and saw all new, and felt

All new! when thought awoke, thought never more
To sleep! when first it saw, heard, reasoned, willed,
And triumphed in the warmth of conscious life!

Nor happy only, but the cause of joy,

Which those who never tasted, always mourned.
What tongue! no tongue shall tell what bliss o'erflowed
The mother's tender heart, while round her hung
The offspring of her love, and lisped her name;
As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven,
That made her fairer far and sweeter seem,
Than every ornament of costliest hue:
And who hath not been ravished, as she passed
With all her playful bands of little ones,
Like Luna, with the daughters of the sky,
Walking in matrón majesty and grace?

All who had hearts here pleasure found: and oft
Have I, when tired with heavy task-for tasks
Were heavy in the world below-relaxed

My weary thoughts among their guiltless sports,
And led them by their little hands a-field,

And watched them run and cross the tempting flower,
Which oft, unasked, they brought me, and bestowed
With smiling face, that waited for a look

Of praise and answered curious questions, put
In much simplicity, but ill to solve:

And heard their observations, strange and new;
And settled whiles their little quarrels, soon
Ending in peace, and soon forgot in love.
And still I looked upon their loveliness,
And sought through nature for similitudes
Of perfect beauty, innocence, and bliss;
And fairest imagery round me thronged:
Dew-drops at dayspring on a seraph's locks,
Roses that bathe about the well of life,

Young loves, young hopes, dancing on morning's cheek,
Gems leaping in the coronet of love.

So beautiful, so full of life, they seemed