POETRY.

JUBAL.

"And his brother's name was Jubal, he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ."

WHEN the rude buddings of the poet's soul
Found utterance in involuntary song,
The passion-impulse, bowed by no controul,
Bore Jubal's strain along.

Nor lacked the untaught melodist a theme,
To try the soarings of his infant lyre;
Far in the east see Eden's hill-tops gleam,
That home of lost desire.

Ah! yes, a burning sense of joys, that now
No tears of sad repentance may regain,
With pensive melancholy frets the brow,

And taints the plaintive strain.

Nor lacked there studies of the lowest deeps,
Where founder human misery and guilt,
For in his cold lone prison Abel sleeps

In blood, Cain's hand had spilt.

Yet might thy harp be tuned to strains more gay,
To cicatrice the spirit-cankering woe;
More gladsome themes, on which the poet's lay
Might flame with brighter glow.

For things of beauty on the thorn-sown earth
Lingered, to wile the speeding of the hours,
For Nature's half-spoiled loveliness gives birth
To birds, and woods, and flowers.

Still ocean's billows, with their ceaseless flow,
Might well inspire the swiftly hurrying song,
And mystic winds fantastic clouds did blow,
In fancy-luring throng.

Did not the lucid streams then murmur clear?

Did not the skies glow bright with pierceless blue?

Did not the changing seasons of the

year

Point verse-themes ever new?

Tis true no hoar antiquity might then
Invite the feet to tread her mazy waste;
Nor did the deeds of fabled hero-men

Pall on the sated taste.

Plumb, Jubal, thine own soul, and thence reflect The passions' ferment, and the spirit's strife; idol of the heart-detect

Test every

The motive springs of life.

Sing that all-potent mover of the breast,

Which doth to feats unheard its slave compel, Or lulls the fiercest to obedient rest

Sing love's resistless spell.

Such strains might well, great Jubal, swell thy lyre,
Might thrill the bosom, or might heave the sigh;
But didst thou teach thy muse to hover higher,
In the thought-fathomed sky?

Did no half-hidden yearnings of affection,
Faint inklings of the path thy fathers trod,
Recal the nigh-forgotten recollection

Of thy Creator, God?

S. X.

TRANSLATION.

(From the German.)

Is there a God? Oh, who but he,
Hath form'd this earth's wide space?
Whose hand but his can rule the sea,
Or give the flow'r its grace?
There is a God! his foot-prints lie
Wherever life is seen;

In mighty mountains tow'ring high,
And forests waving green.

The morning sun, with kindly beams,

The dewdrop homeward calls,

As in the folded rose it gleams,

Or on the green leaf falls;

The luscious grape, the downy peach,
Grow rosy 'neath its smile;

And e'en the doubting heart they teach
There is a God! the while.

In leafy forests, warblers sing

His praise, the livelong day;

These all, and e'en the meanest thing
Proclaim and own his sway.
There is a God! oh, hear his voice,
In nature see his pow'r;
Obey, so shall thy heart rejoice,

And blossom as a flow'r!

There is a God! within thy heart,
His still small whispers hear!
The thunder's roar, the lightning's dart
Proclaim his presence near.

The crested billow rising high,

To woo the lunar ray,

The brilliant stars that gem the sky,

Are subject to his sway.

His wisdom form'd creation's plan,

The world from chaos brought,

T'was he who fix'd the earth's wide span,

The sea its limits taught.

What was, what is, what is to be,

But He alone can tell;

Then let our hearts adoringly

Before his presence dwell!

M. M. F.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

Afar he stood

Trembling and tearful, gazing on his home;

By deepest shame and suffering all-subdued,
Back had that young and wretched wanderer come.
Faint, sad, and pale,

He sank upon his aged parent's breast;

'Mid sobs and sighs he told his woeful tale, And thus his heartful penitence expressed

"Father, I come,

Laden with sin and sorrow, back to thee—
Wilt thou receive the guilty outcast one
Stained as he is with deep iniquity?

“Wilt thou forgive

The base ingratitude of my past years?
And in thy presence once more let me live—
I who have caused thee floods of bitter tears?
"Wilt thou forget

The anguish I have brought to thy kind heart?
Canst thou, my Father, question my regret—
Then bid me not in anger hence depart."

He raised his eye,

Where joyful hope seemed struggling with despair,
Chased was the expression of its agony,

He saw his Father's face, and read forgiveness there.
Farnham.

ANNIE WHITE.

HYMN AT MATINS.*

[From the Latin of St. Gregory.]

THROUGH the long night, till break of day,

With swelling psalm or holy lay,

Our sacrifice of song we pay,
Melodiously.

Scant tribute to our mighty king,
Yet 'tis the all we have to bring,
Till in his courts of bliss we sing
Eternally.

Now to the Godhead-Three in One,
The Father, Spirit, and the Son,

Be honour by all creatures done,

On earth-in heaven.†

The above hymn may perhaps be regarded with curiosity as a specimen of the praises which ascended from every monastery of Europe for centuries. To it also may be awarded the praise of being unobnoxious to Protestant censure, even the most fastidious, in a doctrinal point of view. Many other hymns of Ambrose, Gregory, and Prudentius, besides being unexceptionable in the above-mentioned light, are extremely beautiful as poetry, especially if not marred by a sorry English version.

+ This last stanza must be familiar to all our readers, though its authorship has been hitherto unknown.