Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare, Lo! thrones arise, and every saint is there; Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway, The mountains worship, and the isles obey; Nor sun nor moon they need,-nor day, nor night?-God is their temple, and the Lamb their light: And shall not Israel's sons exulting come, Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home? On David's throne shall David's offspring reign, And the dry bones be warm with life again. Hark! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise, And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise; Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song, Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong; "Worthy the Lamb! omnipotent to save, Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave'

יין

THE COMING OF CHRIST.

THE Lord shall come! the earth shall quake
The hills their fixed seat forsake;

And, withering from the vault of night,
The stars shall pale their feeble light.

The Lord shall come! but not the same
As once in lonely guise He came,
A silent Lamb before His foes,

A weary man, and full of woes.

The Lord will come! a dreadful form,
With rainbow wreath and robes of storm,
On cherub wings and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of human kind!

Can this be He who wont to stray
A pilgrim on the world's highway;
Oppress'd by Power and mock'd by Pride!
O God! is this The Crucified?

Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain!
And seek the mountain's shade in vain!
But Faith, ascending from the tomb,
Shall shouting sing "The Lord is come!"

Leigh Hunt.

Born 1784.

Died 1859.

Was born in Southgate, Middlesex, 19th October 1784. His father was a clergyman of the Church of England, who was enabled to give his son a good education. So early as his sixteenth year he wrote and published verses. In 1805 he connected himself with a newspaper, and was so unfortunate as to be prosecuted for a libel on the Prince Regent. He was sentenced to two years' imprisonment, which was relieved somewhat by the kind attentions of his friends, among whom were Moore and Byron. He also adorned his room with busts and flowers, and in a small corner of the yard contrived to cultivate flowers and young fruit trees. On leaving prison he published the story of "Rimini" in verse, and also two volumes of miscellaneous poetry. In 1842 he published a drama, a "Legend of Florence." He was also a writer of biography and a novelist. Mr Hunt obtained in 1847 a pension of L.200 a-year from Government, which he enjoyed till his death in 1859.

JAFFAR.

JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust,
Of what the good and ev'n the bad might say,
Ordained that no man living, from that day,
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death;
All Araby and Persia held their breath.

All but the brave Mondeer-he, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief,
(For his great heart wanted a great relief,)
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily on the square,
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scymetar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.

"Bring me this man," the Caliph cried; the man
Was brought was gazed upon; the mutes began
To bind his arms. 66
Welcome, brave cords," cried he;
"From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;

From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;

Restored me-loved me-put me on a par,

With his great self; how can I pay Jaffar?"

It flows through flowery meads,

Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ;
Its quiet beauty feeds

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.

Gently it murmurs by

The village churchyard: its low, plaintive toue,
A dirge-like melody,

For worth and beauty modest as its own.
More gaily now it sweeps

By the small school-house in the sunshine bright;
And o'er the pebbles leaps,

Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,

In characters which they who run may read,
The charms of Gentleness,

Were but its still small voice allowed to plead ?
What are the trophies gained

By Power, alone, with all its noise and strife,
To that meek wreath, unstained,
Won by the charities that gladden life?

Niagara's streams might fail,

And human happiness be undisturbed:

But Egypt would turn pale,

Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed!

Allan Cunningham.

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free
While the hollow oak our palace is.

Our heritage the sea.

MY NANIE O.

RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie O,

Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
I'll gang and see my Nanie O.

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

My kind and winsome Nanie O,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do't but Nanie O.

In preaching-time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonny O,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,
For thieving looks at Nanie O.

My Nanie O, my Nanie O;

The world's in love with Nanie O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely 0;