Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind;
The Father, who within the tomb

Sees all life held most dear, enshrined.'

The Missionary Annual has a character of its own, and one which will peculiarly recommend it to the readers of our Journal. The present volume is very superior to its predecessor, in its general appearance, and in the beauty and interest of its well-chosen embellishments. 'Dr. Adam Clarke, and the priests of Buddha 'from Ceylon,' from an original painting in the possession of the Royal Asiatic Society, forms an appropriate frontispiece; and Cowslip Green, the early residence of Mrs. Hannah More, the vignette title. There is a view also of Wrington Church, where Mrs. More is buried. There are three beautiful landscapes illustrative of sacred scenery ;-Aaron's Tomb, Mount Hor, from a drawing by Count de Laborde, engraved by Kernot; Puteoli, engraved by Varrall, from a drawing taken on the spot by Bartlett; and Sidon, engraved by Goodall. Infanticide in Madagascar; the sacred temples of Dwarka; the Pass of the Great Fish River, South Africa; and the Feast of Lanterns; combine the intrinsic interest attaching to them as Missionary illustrations, with a skilful combination of the pencil and the graver. To these are to be added two portraits-Mrs. Stally brass, the lamented wife of the Missionary to Siberia, and Leang Afa, the Chinese Evange'list," from an original painting in the possession of Mrs. Morrison. Of this first-fruits of China, Mr. Ellis has supplied an interesting memoir. His very physiognomy bespeaks the Christian soul, beaming through and transfiguring, as it were, the hard, pagan visage of the native China man. The plate is excellently engraved, and forms one of the most valuable of the varied collection.

Among the contents of this delightful volume are, Thoughts on the Temper and Employments of the Lord's Day, by the late Mr. Wilberforce,' and some devotional lines by the late Rev. Joseph Hughes, which will be valued as relics and memorials of the venerated writers ;-several valuable papers illustrative of the scenes of Missionary operations; and some pieces of an imaginative character. The Burial of Aaron, a legend from the Arabic is powerfully written-in the style of Salathiel and of Melekartha. Some poetical contributions are interspersed, from which we can have no hesitation in selecting the following

Sung in several of the Moravian congregations on the 17th of June, 1822, at the hundredth celebration of the revival of the Ancient MoVOL. XII.-N. S. 3 E

ravian Brethren's Church, at Hernnhuth in Lusatia, on the 17th of June, 1722.

Thy love we here record,

Our sins with tears bewail;
Thy blood pleads for us, Lord!
That plea can never fail.

Through suffering, shame, and loss,
Through honour, wealth, and pleasure,
To glory in thy cross,

As an eternal treasure;

That cross with joy to bear,

Through realms that know Thee not,
And thus thy way prepare ;-

Still be thy Brethren's lot!'

"Friendship's Offering" for 1835 bears stamped upon it the melancholy interest of a parting gift from the able and accomplished Editor, who, having exhausted his physical energies in the literary and philanthropic labours which have indissolubly connected his name both with South Africa and with the emancipation of the African race in the Western Isles, is about to sail once more for the Cape, with a faint hope of recruiting his shattered constitution by the voyage. We cannot refrain from making choice of some beautiful stanzas of his own, written in South Africa, which we find among the varied contents of his well edited volume.

TO THE OSTRICH.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

Lone dweller of the wild Karroo,
Sad is thy desolate domain,
Where grateful fruitage never grew,
Nor waved the golden grain.

What seek'st thou midst these dreary haunts,
Where mourning Nature droops and pants

Beneath the burning skies?
"Freedom I seek; mankind I shun,
Tyrants of all beneath the sun!"
Methinks the bird replies.

Yes-this forsaken, silent waste,
Where only bitter herbs abound,
Is fitly furnished to thy taste,
And blooms thy garden ground.

A fountain, too, to thee is given,
Fed by the thunder-cloud from heaven,
And treasured in the clifts;

For thee boon Nature plants and sows:
Thou reap'st the harvest as it grows,
Rejoicing in her gifts.

For ruthless foes thou reck'st not here.
In vain the slot-hound tracks thy foot:
The huntsman, should he wander near,
Soon flags from the pursuit.

Like winged galley o'er the main,
Thou speed'st across the boundless plain
To some deep solitude,
By human footstep never pressed,
Where faithful mates have scooped the nest
That screens your callow brood.

Thus thou art blest, shy, wandering bird:
And I could love to linger, too,

Where voice of man hath ne'er been heard,
Amidst the lone Karroo-

Free o'er the wilderness to roam,
And frame, like thee, my hermit home
In some untrod recess;

Afar from turmoil, strife, and folly,
And misery, and melancholy,

And human selfishness.'

The Annuals are not rich in poetry. Nothing has pleased us better than two poems by Laman Blanchard; one in the Amulet, the other in the Juvenile Forget-me-not. The latter we shall venture to transcribe, notwithstanding that the subject connects it with the Nursery.

The water! the water, who brings?

Run, Lucy, the water, while yet there is light-
You can go to the first of the springs;

To-morrow, remember, the Sabbath bell rings,
And this (how the week's fly!) is Saturday night.

.

Where's the pitcher? there's water within it-
Not half enough ;-here, skim away down the path,
The rogue will be stript in a minute,

His little heart, feel, how it pants to be in it,
And longs, like a frolicsome bird, for the bath.

'Now, then, all is ready, and here,

Ah! here is the water, a feast for the sight,
Pour it in till its sparkles appear-

Why the child's very forehead is scarcely more clear,
And his eye, though it glistens, is only as bright.

There's a bath for young beauty! so in,
In, sweet little bather, one splash and its o'er ;
We'll sprinkle you just to begin-

There, there, now its over, he's up to his chin,
And the silver-drops down from his gold ringlets pour.

With his wet hand he rubs his wet nose,

And he shuts up his eyelids and lips like a book;
And as down each drop trickling goes,

His flushed cheek resembles a dew-dripping rose,
And his brow seems a lily just snatched from a brook.

Now his other hand dashes away

The drops that are tickling his forehead and chin;
And he opens his eyes in his play,

Like some quaint little water-sprite peering for day,
With glances that seemed to ask how he got in!

But anon comes his time of delight:
The bather begins to breathe after the dip;
Much more is he now like a sprite,

And now will he celebrate Saturday night
With the play of his limbs and the power of his lip.

'Just hear how his small voice can shout,

While he sparkles and splashes there, much like a fish ; How he scatters the bright drops about

How he laughs, and leaps up, and looks prankish! no doubt He would turn o'er the bath, if he had but his wish!