WINTER SUNRISE.

THE pulse of earth begins again to beat,
As, on her cold and dewy couch she turns,
The guardian seraphim of day to greet
What time their glory in the orient burns;
Barring the grey with fire, as if their train
Kept the closed gates of Paradise again.

But He whose beauty filleth all in all,
Rides on those cherub-clouds in living light;
Or, as His heralds, send them forth to call

His slumbering creatures from th' embrace of night:
Though by His splendours thrill'd, they gaze, and seem
All motionless through some entrancing dream.

But now a wafting from th' unrisen sun

Breathes o'er their burnished ranks, and shifts the scene,
Changing their gorgeous tints as, one by one,
They move in silence o'er his golden sheen,
Now of all forms and hues-now dim, now bright,
And now, one tissue of intensest light.

Lift up! lift up your heads, ye gates of day!
Your King appears, but in his richer beams
Well may the skiey pageant fade away,

And with it all our fond but fruitless dreams-
For earth is only earth; and all around
The thorn and thistle choke th' accursed ground.

Yet are there foot-prints of a Father's care
Even on this thankless rock-the flow'rs that look,
And birds that sing His praises, nestle there;
And now-e'en now-this chill and bare-shorn nook
Rings with the minstrelsy of heaven's own bird,
From the dew-beaded grass in twitterings heard.

THE RETROSPECT.

When from this lofty eminence I trace

The path of peril which so long I trod,

Until arrested by that wondrous grace,

Which led me to my Saviour and my God

Such wild and fearful objects meet the eye,

'Midst crags and cliffs, and gulphs which yawn beneath,

That, overpowerd by gratitude, I cry,

"What love! to snatch me from eternal death!"

'Twas He alone, omnipotent to save,

Whose arm is strength, whilst all beside are weak;

Who snatch'd from ruin, sin's deluded slave,

And deign'd the rebel wanderer to seek.
He took compassion, on my wretched plight,
Whilst I was yet a rebel-dead in sin!
He touched my eyes, he gave me heavenly light,
And bade me see the peril I was in.

Oh! what a waking hour was that to me!
So full terror bordering on despair;
I fear'd to stay, yet knew not how to flee,
With such a burden, Lord, as then I bare.
I strove to rise when sleeping conscience woke,
And then I learnt that human strength is vain;
The reed on which I lean'd in twain was broke,
And down to earth, sore bruised I fell again!
O'erwhelmed with shame, with disappointment stung,
I bleeding lay, enchained by sorrow's bands;
Conscience rose up with its accusing tongue,
And God's dishonor'd law made its demands.
Ah! who can tell, what I that moment felt,

For woe had filled my cup with bitterness;
But God-my God-with special mercy dealt,
Vouchsaf'd his presence in my soul's distress.

"Oh, wretched man!" the Spirit mourn'd o'er me

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'Why didst thou lean on aught, save Jesu's arm? "Tis Christ alone can rescue such as thee,

And to thy wounds apply the healing balm.

"Art thou in want of solace? sinner, flee

"To Him who is the Life, the Truth, the Way;

"When consolations are so rich and free,

"His love shall be thy light, his strength thy day."

Thus prompted by the Spirit from above,

I found a solace from o'erwhelming woes,

As by the influence of the self-same love,

The suppliant's earnest prayer to heaven arose. Nor was it breathed in vain, Christ's blood was spilt, The guiltiest of our fallen race to bless;

In that rich blood he wash'd away my guilt,

And clothed me with his robe of righteousness.

TS. SH.

"EVERY LITTLE HELPS."

WHAT if the little rain should plead-
"So small a drop as I,

"Can ne'er refresh the thirsty mead;
"I'll tarry in the sky?"

What, if the shining beam of noon,

Should in its fountain stay;
Because its feeble light alone,
Cannot create a day?

Does not each rain-drop help to form
The cool refreshing shower?
And every ray of light, to warm

And beautify the flower.

ON A NOSEGAY OF HOT-HOUSE FLOWERS.
YES-thou art very beautiful, gay flowers,

But there's no pleasant memory with thee;

'Tis but the close pent hot-house walls I see-
Dews have not bathed thee, nor the summer showers;

I have not sought thee in the forest bowers
Amid the dark tufts of the tangled glade;

Thou art not tenants of the woodland shade;
Thou hast not made me know each "alley green,
Dingle, and bushy dell of the wild wood."

I have not searched for thee by fount and flood:
Thou hast not made me love the beauteous scene,
The pure, the bright, the peaceful, the serene;
-Scenes that with earnest prayer so fill my heart
That thou, my gracious Lord! would thine own peace impart!
E. L. A.

ASK AND HAVE.

(From "The Song of the Sun," an Icelandic Poem of the 11th century.)

WHATE'ER thy wishes or thy wants-of these

With fervent supplication haste to tell;
Who nought petitions, is with nought supplied;
The sufferings of the silent, few read well.

to the ground with the exception of part of one tower. This relic is an object of curiosity on account of its leaning position, making an angle of seventy-three degrees with the horizon, and seventeen from the perpendicular, and is scarcely less remarkable than the celebrated tower of Pisa, in Italy. Sustained by strength of masonry and depth of foundation, it appears likely to maintain its apparently fearful position for centuries.

The church, a portion of which appears in the accompanying engraving, was built from a plan, and under the superintendence of the celebrated architect Telford, and is remarkable for the elegance of its exterior.

THE VESSELS OF WRATH, AND THE VESSELS OF MERCY.

BEING confined to my chamber by indisposition, and musing on things past and future, my confused ideas gradually arranged themselves in the form of a waking dream.

I fancied myself seated on the brow of a lofty cliff, commanding an extensive view of what seemed a boundless ocean. Below me lay a beautiful harbour, or rather bay, of such a magnificent sweep, that the eye could scarcely scan the objects on its further boundary. Yet was it crowded with vessels of every size and description, from the stately frigate down to the smallest boat; and all, at first sight, seemed equally safe and tranquil, as they rested on the sparkling waves, beneath the bright rays of the

summer sun.

I looked around, and nothing could exceed the beauty of the surrounding shores, as they gradually sloped to the water's edge. All that could please the eye, and dazzle the senses,-verdant groves, picturesque villas, blooming gardens,-seemed grouped together in rich profusion. The centre was occupied by the busy streets of a populous town, whose docks and piers stretched into the water, while its terraces and crescents, and lively promenades spread themselves in all directions among the surrounding groves. All was a scene of enchanting beauty. I sat gazing intently on it, when a rumbling sound, like distant thunder, attracted my attention, and I looked upwards. Instantly a new