ciently the cudgels were used by the Lictor, as now the gentler rods by our tyrannical pedagogues for lighter faults"-EVELYN.

Some of the above applications of the Birch have fallen into disuse; so abundantly has nature administered to our necessities, that what in one age is a valuable production, becomes neglected in another, from the discovery of something that serves the purpose better.

Of that juice of the Birch-tree, commonly called Birch wine, the older writers speak largely-we are not aware that now, in our country at least, it is for any purpose collected-it is a subject of interest only as a vegetable product, not entirely understood in physiological botany. Formerly the juice of the Birch had all sorts of virtues, and was compounded into infallible remedies for all sorts of diseases: when the sovereign effects of the juices of this despicable tree supplied its defects, which made some judge it unworthy to be brought into the catalogue of woods to be propagated." We have already spoken of this sort of liquor as pertaining to other trees, and the manner of collecting it-from the Birch it flows in the Spring abundantly.

"The sap or lymph of most plants, when collected as above mentioned, appears to the sight and taste little else than water, but it soon undergoes fermentation and putrefaction. The Birch, Betula Alba, affords plenty of sap; some other trees yield a small quantity. It flows equally upward and downward from a wound, at least proportionally to the quantity of stem or branch, in either direction, to supply it. This great motion, called the flowing of the sap, which is to be detected principally in the Spring, and slightly in the Autumn, is totally distinct from that constant propulsion of it going on in every growing plant."-SMITH,

"The Birch is liable to a disease in its branches, which causes it to send out a very great number of shoots in the middle of a branch, which being grown to some length, at a distance much resembles a tree full of rook's nests. In Lancashire, the twigs are made into besoms for exportation. The leaves afford a yellow dye. The bark is extremely useful to the inhabitants of the north of Europe; they make hats and drinking cups of it in Kamschatka. The Swedish fishermen make shoes of it. The Norwegians cover their houses with it, and upon this they lay turf three or four inches thick. Torches are made of the bark sliced and twisted together. It abounds with a resinous matter, highly inflammable. It affords the Laplander in the summer, when he lives on the mountains, fuel for the fires which he is obliged

to keep in his hut, to defend him from the gnats; and covered with the skin of the rein-deer, it forms his bed."-WITHERING.

1

"The liquor flowing from the wounds made in this tree, is used by the inhabitants of Kamschatka without previous fermentation, in which state it is said to be pleasant and refreshing. In this manner the crews of the Resolution and Discovery used it during their stay in the harbour of St. Peter and St. Paul. The natives of Kamschatka convert the bark into the domestick and kitchen purposes, and the wood is employed in the construction of sledges and canoes. Hraschininikoff, in his history of Kamschatka, says, that the natives convert the bark into a pleasant and wholesome food, by stripping it off when it is green, and cutting it into long, narrow stripes, like Vermicelli, drying it, and stewing it afterwards with their Caviar."-HUNter.

HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS.

HYMN V.-JUDAH.

WHO wanders there by Jordan's stream,

Her sweet harps all unstrung,

And breaks the silence with a sigh,

Where royal David sung?

Who wanders there by Jordan's stream

With looks so pale, so sad ;

Where altars smoked, and prophets spake,

And ev'ry heart was glad?

Why does she turn her tearful eye

Intent on yonder spire,

Beneath whose now polluted roof

Once burn'd celestial fire?

Why does she fold her cold, bare arms
Upon her fever'd breast,

And watch the wasting of the night

While others are at rest?

There is but one should watch and weep

While all can sleep beside :

'Tis banish'd Judah's ruin'd child,

Immanuel's widow'd bride.

That spot where now the stranger dwells,

Was once her royal home;

'Twas there the rebel slew her Lord,

And there they made his tomb.
Betrothed now to shame and death,
She mourns her wither'd bloom;
The cold, damp earth is all her throne,
The pathless world her home.

Turn, daughter, turn! Poor banish'd child!
Thy sorrow's glass is run;

Time wastes thine hour of banishment,
Thy tangled thread is spun.

Turn, daughter, turn! The light that dawns
Shall see thy crown restor❜d:

Thy husband lives to claim his bride,
Prepare to greet thy Lord.

Ye cannot serve two masters.-MATT. vi.

As is the loyal subject of his king

Distinguished from his false and factious sons,
So is the sinner from the ransomed saint,
One still pursuing what the other shuns.

The patriot who loves his country's weal,
Does not assort him with his country's foes-
He does not join the infuriated throng
Whose bold seditions trouble her repose.

We find him not amid the secret haunts
Where treachery conspires against her laws—
We hear him not where sophistry essays
With artful cavils to evade her laws.

E'en so the Christian-once a rebel slave,
The scowl of treason sate upon his brow
The world perceives and marvels at the change-
The loving child, the faithful subject now.

He cannot find his pleasures where the name
Of him he loves is taunted and profaned,
His mercies all unheeded and despised,
His wrath defied, his proffered love disdained.
Gladly and without effort he resigns
Whatever may oppose his sacred word-
He cannot habit with his master's foes-
He cannot love a world that slew his Lord.

When earth proposes what his Lord forbids,
He does not stay to question of the gain-
Enough for him his Father wills it not-
The treacherous bait is proffered him in vain.

Often oppressed, insulted, and alone,

He dares to raise the standard that he bears,
Unmoved by pride and folly's idle laugh,
Nor ever blushes for the badge he wears.

A FRAGMENT.

Mark yonder snow-topped hills and barren fields
E'er yet the twilight to the sun-beam yields
No glowing verdure overspreads the ground-
Frost with an iron hand has clasped them round.
By the starved herd in hopeless longing trod,
Cold, bare, and stubborn is the useless sod.
And now the sun is rising—winged with love
Comes the bright beam of morning from above-
It falls in kindness-but it falls unfelt-
The ice receives it, but it does not melt-
It shines indeed more beautiful, more gay,
But nothing softened by the genial ray.
And still that sun returns-and still again,

It comes, and comes, and still it comes in vain--
For every day that sun has brighter shone,
And every day the ice is harder grown.
Our hearts by nature are that stubborn sod,
Cold to the love and mercy of our God.
Beam after beam of tenderest pity sheds
Its holy influence on our thoughtless heads;
But sheds in vain-his threatened wrath forgot
His mercy slighted, we regard him not-
Estranged from home we fly our Father's face,
And mock the warnings of his proffered grace.

THE FIR TREE.

AND what art thou, still standing there
Amid the fading and the fair,

C.

Nor fair nor fading thou? As if thy sad and sullen pride

Held it beneath thee to have vied

With those that round thee grow.

I watch'd thee, when in green so gay,
They dress'd them for their summer's day,
Thou didst not dress thee too-

And when they fringed their suit with gold,
Deck'd in their bravery bright and bold,
Thou didst not change thy hue.

And then I saw it all put off,
And one by one I saw them doff

Their broidery and their gold--
Till now undeck'd and unattired,
Naked, unlovely, unadmir'd

They stand so bare, so cold.

But there art thou with look the same
When summer goes as when it came,
Nor sorrowful, nor glad―

When others smiled, thou wouldst not smile,
While others die, thou stand'st the while
Still cover'd and still clad.

Aye, doubtless! and I'll read thee true,
And say thou'st learn'd as others do,
A lesson hardly taught-

That summers and that winters too,
So briefly come and briefly go,

That thou wilt trust them not.

And when the false spring swells her horn To tell thee all thy ills are done,

And nought but joys remain ;
Thou'st heard the lie too oft before,--
Thou'lt listen to the tale no more-
The storm will come again.

And then the autumn's warning blight,
The sunless day, the long, long night,

Oh! they are nothing new-
Thou'st tried full many a winter now,
And seen it come, and seen it go,
And this will pass thee too.

I would be like thee-gravely dight,
And never gay in this world's light,
Or in its glories glad-