LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. ROBERT MOFFAT, ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR AFRICA.
AND have we looked our very last upon thy noble brow?
The gale that wafts thy bark away, is sweeping round us now:
The deep spell of thine eloquence shall bind our souls no more,
Except as echoed faintly back from Afric's distant shore.
Thou bearest not away from hence the victor's blood-stained wreath ;
Nor hath thy meed of praise been won from Fame's impassioned breath.
If thousands breathe thy name around the altar and the hearth,
It is because the smile of heaven hath blest the child of earth.
Oh be that smile upon thee still, in each remotest glen,
In desert glooms and solitudes, far from the track of men.
Oh when each earthly fount is dried, may living waters bless,
And angels minister to thee-hope of the wilderness.
Thy memory will be with us still in every house of prayer
Thy brethren, on their hearts to heaven, thy cherished name shall bear;
And where home voices sweetly blend around the parent knee,
Young earnest lips shall murmur forth the whispered prayer for thee.
And she, whose patient love hath been a well-spring to thy heart,
Long be she spared in thy success to bear her joyful part:
She hath been with thee in the cloud-now be the sunlight her's,
As Afric's star of hope shall rise o'er her long night of tears.
But oh, when counting o'er the wealth thy household ties afford,
If some respond not to thy call, and haste not to thy board,
Let the deep yearnings of thy heart for these beloved ones cease;
Thou gavest them to God, and He shall give thy spirit peace.
Thy friends will love them for thy sake; and, watching o'er them still,
Will pray for thee and them, that both be kept from every ill :
The God we trust shall yet restore each safely treasured gem;
And O that all may grace at last the Saviour's diadem!
Mission School, Walthamstow.
"Death shall be their shepherd."
What hast thou in thy shrine,
Thou ever-grasping, still insatiate tomb?
Amid thy caverns of decay and gloom,
What doth thy might confine?
Thou hast been whelming since the young world's birth, In shades oblivious, the fair sons of earth.
The mighty have gone down
To thy dark sepulchres of wasting bloom,—
Their glory as a shadow mid thy gloom
Hath vanished,—and alone
They rest in darkness mid thy thronging caves,
The bright world heed not honor's restless waves.
The king hath laid aside
His regal diadem, and pomp, and might;
As fadeth gleam of even's golden light,
As melteth rainbow's pride,-
So hath he parted from the earth's bright gaze,
A dream of memory, his rich glory's rays.
The wise their altars leave;
Their aspirations towering to the skies,
Bow to that lone home's dread realities,
Whose might doth undeceive,-
Earth's spell doth loosen-bids life's fleeting things
Flash in the radiance light immortal flings.
And loved ones to thy shade
Have passed from hearth and altar; thou hast rent Fond ties that with life's deepest springs have blent,
Bid the rich colouring fade
O'er earth's path streaming from affection's sky;—
Stern grave! why sever thus deep love and high?
The bridal wreath hath lain
On the high altar in its clustering bloom,
And love hath visioned not of blight to come
Yet thou hast marr'd its beauty,-o'er its light
Flung darkling shadows of a rayless night!
The young fair brow hath glowed
In its unshaded glory, as on high
It drank the radiance of a purer sky,-
Light that from heaven had flowed!
How gazed affection on its promise bright!
Thou, thou didst pour on it a scathing blight.
Brightly the babe hath smiled,
As sank it in maternal arms to rest;
O'er that deep cradle slumbering, what blest
Fond visions love did build!
Yet on the cherub brow thy seal was set,
And hope's rich garland with vain tears was wet.
Yes, thou hast gulfed in gloom,
Insatiate grave! a thousand hopes of light,
Hung with the blossoming of spring-time bright,
The rose-hued flush of bloom!
Earth to her centre doth thy spoilance mourn,
Thou bear'st the cherished whence they ne'er return.
No! boasting grave! a voice shall rouse thy dead-
Shall bid thy myriads from their hidden bed
Thou art a shrine to treasure precious things, Till the great audit of the King of kings. Kingston.
WHEN wearied with the cares of life,
With which we long have striv'n,
We love to turn from scenes of strife,
And look by faith to heav'n;
For thoughts with holy comfort rife
To the spirit then are given,
And the clouds of sorrow and darkness flee,
Dispelled by the light of eternity.
Beautiful land of calm repose,
Without one shade of night,
Where joy like a pure river flows,
So clear, so deep, so bright;
Where lovely flowers luxuriant grow,
Untouched by sorrow's blight,
While traversing life's tempestuous sea,
How sweet and how soothing are thoughts of thee.
Yes, thoughts of thee may well beguile
The darkest hours of gloom—
The Christian even learns to smile,
While weeping o'er the tomb;
His hopes, e'en if they droop awhile,
Can never cease to bloom;
He looks by sweet faith to the land of the blest,
And rejoices, for there is his home and his rest.
"WHAT IS YOUR LIFE?"
As fleeting as the morning cloud
That moves in fearful silence by,
As changeful as the mists that shroud
The summer-evening sky,
Shifting with every pulse of air,
Just such is life; as false, as fair.
These, as they speed their solemn flight,
Like snow wreaths round the lasting hills,
To catch the sun's retiring light,
Shew forth its fretting ills;
And busy cares still pressing on,
Till every ray of hope is gone.-
And life has joys that never fail
As deep, and bright, and beauteous too,
When not a cloud unfurls its sail,
As heaven's unfading hue;
Pure joys which, like their parent sky,
Are grandest when the storm rides by.
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