of my nature, nay, very many things I thought to be no wrong at all, are now become my burden and my shame, more poignant, more intolerable, than all my bodily suffering. And looking forward, death seems to me no more a distant and invisible enemy-eternity no more a vague and undefined expectation of I know not what— and instead of a mere thing of course, a stale and heartless theme, my Saviour's life on earth, his love, his holiness, his agonizing death, has become my bosom's only hope, my sorrow's consolation.

And shall I be impatient of the lesson that teaches me all this? No, rather let me pray it may be continued till all this is fully learned. It cannot be given in anger. Had God not loved me, he would not have interrupted my enjoyments, and brought me to the solitary chamber where he meant to restore me by his truth, to comfort me with his love, and by his grace subdue and sanctify my soul. Shall I wish he had not loved me thus? Be far from me every impatient and repining thoughtIt is true, alas! that nature sinks and my spirit is faint within me. Conscience seizes on the moment of weakness to remind me that when I had the health that is gone from me, I used it in frivolous and vain pursuitswhen I had all the powers of my mind in natural action, I expended them upon the things of time, and refused my life's best moments to my Maker's service. And will he now accept this worthless remnant-these spiritless and painful hours of which I can make no other use, and therefore am willing to concede to him? An earthly friend would scorn such offerings-he would say to me, "No; since you shared your prosperity with other friends, go to them now and let them share your adversity too." But God does not say so-He does not say, Come to me while you are well and happy that I may be sure you sincere in your devotions, and prefer me above all the good things that surround you, else will I reject you— He says, Come to me, thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and not comforted-come to me, you that are

are

weary and heavy laden-come when there is no one else to listen and nothing else to help you. Is there not a sweet thought of comfort in these words-and if I should return to health and spirits, shall I forget what I have thought of them now? Rather may I never so return, than forget in their enjoyment what I thought of the world, of God, and of myself, in the sadness and silence of my solitary chamber.

But I desire not to choose, for I know not what is best, and should most surely choose amiss. If I should desire death, it might be too bold a wish; the effect of impatience of suffering, of weariness of life, or unwillingness to carry to the end the burden sin has laid upon me. If I should desire life and health, the wish might be too bold again. For perhaps I should forget my God, think lightly of my Saviour, and lose, in the growing love of earth, the thought of my eternal state-in the noon-tide of enjoyment lose sight of that bright hope which is the beacon of my darker hours. Or perhaps I should but live to suffer some hard trial my omniscient guide knows well I have not strength enough to bear. Rather let him choose who knows, and cannot choose amiss. Be it granted to me only that living I may not forget him, and dying I may be with him.

HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATION S.

THOUGHTS IN THE CHURCH YARD AT H
Where the "Forget-me-not" grows abundantly among the Tombs.
YES, Sweetly o'er yon bower the rose

Rears its young flowers, its fragrance throws;

And gaily yonder sunny lawn

The daisy's lowly charms adorn;

And sweetly blooms beside the stream,
In modest pride, the meadow's queen;
And graceful in the woody dell,
Appears the hyacinth's drooping bell:

Yet can the poet's downcast eye,
A lovelier flower than these descry,
Yes, sweeter still, Forget-me-not
Blooms on the grave.

In all, the softly pensive mind
Can wisdom's noblest lessons find:
Yon hy'cinth drooping to the earth,
Does it not picture suff'ring worth?
Sad, it shuns the haunts of men,
But fills with sweet perfume the glen;
The daisy from her humble bed,
Content, uplifts her cheerful head,
As gaily dawns for her the day,
As bright on her the sunbeams play,
As on that proudest regal flower,
Whose pompous stems majestic tower,
When tempests rend the knotted oaks,
And downward hurl e'en massive rocks;
When frighted nature shrinks aghast,
The hardy sunflower braves the blast-
On Heaven is fixed her constant eye,
Nor fear'd the desolation nigh.
Blushing, the rose first hails the day,
In death her virtues mock decay,
Fragrant, though withered, in her leaves,
A rich memorial she gives:

And that fair plant, whose graceful stem
Seems form'd to wear a diadem,

The queen of flowers does not disdain
To soothe the humble shepherd's pain.*
Yes, all afford attentive thought,
Wisdom, by years of toil unbought,
Each bud the child with joy beholds,
A lesson to the sage unfolds:

Yet must the heart more own the power
Of one unknown, uncultur'd flower,

More precious lore-Forget-me-not,
Speaks from the grave.

She monumental pomp disdains,

Where sculptur'd marble's splendour reigns, But where no epitaph is plac'd,

Where with no stone the sod is grac'd,

*The queen of the meadows stops bleeding.

With rich profusion rears her head
To deck the peasant's humble bed;
O with what feelings must the heart,
Condemned from those most lov'd to part,
Behold thy slender leaflets wave,
Forget-me-not, above their grave!
Where'er thy little form appears,
"Tis water'd by affection's tears,
"Tis fann'd by resignation's sigh,
Or mark'd with wet, yet beaming eye,
As highest hopes the soul inspire,
And warm with pure celestial fire,
O then how much Forget-me-not
Tells from the grave.

Trembling, yet firm, like Christian faith, It cheers the gloomy bed of death; Though on that bed its root remains, 1ts flower no dismal hue retains, The tints of Heaven adorn its-vest, And living sunbeams gild its breast; Thus Christian hope, Forget-me-not, Breathes from the grave.

O could its gentle voice be heard
In scenes that make a death-bed feared!
Where throng the giddy and the gay,
As thoughtless fashion leads the way,
When harmony and mirth impart
Delusive gladness to the heart,
When vanity displays her pride,

With careless levity her guide,

When stoops the deathless, glorious soul,
To glare and tinsel's base control,

When heaven-born minds can grovelling lie,

Nor think of immortality,

When pleasure veils the form of vice,

When this world smiles a Paradise,

Then, lovely flower, thy warning give,

Bid them as dying creatures live,
Then softly say, Forget-me-not,
Think of the grave.

And oh, when virtue mourns the power Of cares and woes that round her lower,

By poverty's depressing weight
Compell'd to supplicate the great,
To bear the wealthy fool's disdain,
To see of summer friends the train
Retire; obscure, unheard, unknown,
In ling'ring maladies to groan;
Unsooth'd, to shed the bitter tear,
Of heart-wrung anguish o'er the bier
Of the lov'd child, the tender wife,
The last, last charm that sweeten'd life;
When blasted ev'ry prospect fair,
Nought meets the view but black despair;
Forget-me-not, what angel's lay

Can speak the soft tranquillity

That fills, that elevates the mind,

When, earth and earth-born cares resigned,

Calm, sweet, as music of the spheres,

Thine admonition meets the ears:
"Child of woe, yet heir of bliss,
"But the germ of being this!
"Child of hope, repress thy grief,
"Homeward look for bless'd relief,
“Homeward turn thy weeping eyes,
"Know thine home in yonder skies;
"Here a stranger, bear awhile
"The ills of life with patient smile;
"Joys exstatic there await-
"Mine to deck their lowly gate,

"Mine to say Forget-me-not

"For thee opes the grave."

VOL II.

WHAT OWEST THOU?

MAN with his God has an account,
Large is the debt, of vast amount,

However vast, however large,
Man is unable to discharge.

The debt is sin, and death the due,
Oppos'd to each transgressor's view;
Nor can the judgment e'er be stay'd,
Unless the penalty is paid.

C C

BELA.