THERE have been published many selections of religious poetry in England and in this country, within the last few years; but it is believed no volume of the kind has appeared as a book for the boudoir, with typography and embellishments so beautiful as distinguish this.

There is no poetry so rare as the poetry of devotion. It would be as difficult, however, for a true poet as for a true philosopher not to be imbued with the spirit of piety, and we find that sacred songs are among the finest productions of nearly all the great poets, whether they were technically religious or not.

The romance obtains a quicker popularity than the history, the melodrama than the tragedy, and the ballad a more general admiration than the ode. In this collection are many pieces without the highest attributes of poetry; but very few, it is believed, which have not the simplicity, harmony and purity that will secure a welcome from every variety of readers.

The importance of having works of this description, to elevate the taste and deepen the religious sentiments, can hardly be too highly estimated. Poetry is the expression of beauty, and every thing truly good is beautiful. Devout reflections upon life, death, and the destiny of the soul, may by the poet be sung to men who would never hear them

from another teacher, and thus a simple song be as the voice of the FATHER to an erring child, calling him into the way of life.

PHILADELPHIA, 1844.

WOR 19 FEB '36

The Soul thirsting after God.

S pants the wearied hart for cooling springs,
That sinks exhausted in the summer's chase;
So pants my soul for Thee, great King of kings!
So thirsts to reach thy sacred dwelling-place.

On bitter tears my pining soul hath fed,

While taunting foes deride my deep despair;

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Say, where is now thy great Deliverer fled?

Thy mighty God-abandon'd wanderer, where?"

Oft dwell my thoughts on those thrice happy days,
When to thy courts I led the willing throng;
Our mirth was worship, all our pleasure praise,
And festal joys still closed with sacred song.

Why throb, my heart? Why sink, my saddening soul?
Why droop to earth with various woes oppress'd?

My years shall yet in blissful circles roll,

And peace be yet an inmate of this breast.

By Jordan's banks with devious steps I stray,
O'er Hermon's rugged rocks and deserts drear:
E'en there thy hand shall guide my lonely way,
There thy remembrance shall my spirit cheer.

In rapid floods the vernal torrents roll,
Harsh sounding cataracts responsive roar;
Thine angry billows overwhelm my soul,
And dash my shatter'd bark from shore to shore.