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And when the watchers of the night, the stars shall cease

to burn,

And the sun shall pass to darkness, and the moon to blood shall turn,

A glorious host of spirits, o'er the shrivelled sky shall sweep Mild as the spirit's light that passed in chaos o'er the deep. W. D.


From an unpublished Poem on IDOLATRY.

Blest be the bark that o'er the ocean glides;

And bears the self-devoted saint to some

Far distant clime of pagan ignorance,

There to disclose, with pious mind, and soul
Benevolent, the truths that can alone

Bring peace to man. Blest be the generous hand
That freely gives his little all to smooth
The missionary's rugged path; and blest
That people, who with generous sympathy,
Stretch forth a saving arm to wrest from death,

A world of fellow-beings sunk in sin.

R.K. H.



Land, where the bones of our fathers are sleeping!
Land, where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping!

Land, where the light of Jehovah is shining!
We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.

Dark is our path o'er the dark-rolling ocean;
Dark are our hearts; but the fire of devotion
Kindles within ;-and a far distant nation

Shall learn from our lips the glad song of salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
Land of our rest!-when a few more to-morrows
Pass o'er our heads, we will seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows.




'Tis thou that soothest the deathbed of the saint, When round his dying couch his children and Their children's children flock, a sorrowing group,

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To watch with anxious looks that last dread scene; 'Tis thou that lightest with hope his glazing eye; And as the world recedes beneath his


'Tis thou that beam'st upon his pallid lips,

Quivering with his last breath, one blessed smile,

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That seems to murmur, my Redeemer lives;'

And when his children, of their sire bereaved,
Sink in their grief o'erwhelmed, 'tis then that thou
Impartest consolation to their souls;

And as to heaven they raise their tearful eyes,
Repining at their fate, thou bid'st them kneel

Before the throne of grace, and humbly whisper there,
With hearts resigned, Father, thy will be done.'

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R.K. H.


Another year's fast hastening to a close,
With all its chequered scenes of joys and woes,
And all the glories of its summer bloom
Are sunk for ever in dark winter's gloom;
But man, forgetful of the time that's flown,

Looks forward to the future as his own,

Nor for a moment glances o'er the


That tells him of his sins, and of his age;

Leaves his account with conscience in arrear,

All to be settled in some future year.

Till death, unmindful of his sinful state,

Bids him quick enter through his dreary gate,
And from his Judge, receive his final doom,
Eternal joy-or hell's unsated tomb.


Life's but a dream of ill-spent hours,
Where hallowed truth ne'er finds a place;
And they that soonest snatch its flowers,
Are first to end their godless race.

Life's but a dream of waking care,
Where peace finds rarely room to rest;

And he can best his burden bear,

W. C. R.

Whose hopes are all in heaven with Christ.

W. C. R.


The silver lamp burns dead and dim,

But Christabel the lamp will trim;

She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,

While Geraldine, in wretched plight,

Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary Lady Geraldine,

I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers,
My mother made it of wild flowers.'

And will your mother pity one, Who am a maiden most forlorn ?'

Christabel answered, 'Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding day.
O mother dear, that thou wert here!'
'I would,' said Geraldine, she were.'

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Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue ;-
Alas!' said she- this ghastly ride,'-
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!'
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, 'Tis over now!'


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