THE STILL, SMALL VOICE.

M'Comb.

HE cometh, He cometh, the Lord passeth by ; The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh; The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast; But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast.

He cometh, He cometh, the Lord, He is near,
The earth it is reeling, all nature's in fear;
The earthquake's approaching, with terrible form;
But the Lord of Sabaoth is not in the storm.

He cometh, He cometh, the Lord is in ire ;
The smoke is ascending, the mount is on fire!
is Jehovah revealing His name!

O say,
He is near, but Jehovah is not in the flame.

He cometh, He cometh, the tempest is o'er ;
He is come, neither tempest nor storm shall be more;
All nature reposes; earth, ocean, and sky,

Are still as the voice that descends from on high.

How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace, When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease, When the welcome of Mercy falls soft on the ear, "Come hither, ye laden-ye weary, draw near!"

There's a rest for the soul that on Jesus relies ; There's a home for the homeless, prepared in the skies;

There's a joy in believing, a hope, and a stay, That the world cannot give, nor the world take away.

O had I the wings of a dove, I would fly,
And mount on the pinions of faith to the sky,
Where the still and small breathing to earth that
was given,

Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven.

ON READING HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S

POEM ON SOLITUDE.

Josiah Conder.

BUT art thou thus indeed " alone,"

Quite unbefriended, and unknown?

And hast thou then his name forgot
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot?

Is not his voice in evening's gale?
Beams not with him the "star" so pale?
Is there a leaf can fade and die,
Unnoticed by his watchful eye ?

Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To Thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art "all alone ?"

TO MY MOTHER.

Kirke White.

AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment, think,
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed
Its blanching honours on thy weary head,
Could from our best of duties ever shrink?
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink,
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day
To pine in solitude thy life away,

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink.

Banish the thought! where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond Memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

AUTUMN.

Montgomery.

SWEET Sabbath of the year!

While evening lights decay,
Thy parting steps methinks I hear
Steal from the world away.

Amid thy silent bowers,

'Tis sad, but sweet, to dwell:

Where falling leaves and drooping flowers

Around me breathe farewell.

Along thy sunset skies,

Their glories melt in shade;

And like the things we fondly prize,

Seem lovelier as they fade.

A deep and crimson streak

Thy dying leaves disclose; As, on Consumption's waning cheek, 'Mid ruin blooms the rose.

Thy scene each vision brings
Of beauty in decay :

Of fair and early faded things,
Too exquisite to stay.

Of joys that come no more;

Of flowers whose bloom is fled;
Of farewells wept upon the shore ;
Of friends estranged or dead;

Of all that now may seem,
To Memory's tearful eye,
The vanish'd beauty of a dream,
O'er which we gaze and sigh.

ON THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE.

Rev. J. Plumptre.

SUCH talents and such piety combined,
With such unfeign'd humility of mind,