UNIVERSAL PROVIDENCE.

THE insect that, with puny wing,
Just shoots along one summer ray;
The flow'ret which the breath of spring
Wakes into life for half a day:
The smallest mote, the tenderest hair,
All feel our heavenly Father's care.

Ev'n from the glories of his throne,
He bends to view this earthly ball,
Sees all, as if that all were one-

Loves one, as if that one were all :
Rolls the swift planets in their spheres,
And counts the sinner's lowly tears.
CUNNINGHAM.

THE LAST WORDS OF AN AGED
CHRISTIAN.

IN age and feebleness extreme,

Who shall a helpless worm redeem ?
Jesus, my only hope thou art,

Strength of my failing flesh and heart.

Oh! could I catch one smile from thee,

And drop into eternity!*

Charles Wesley, having spoken these words, departed, on the 29th of March, 1788, aged 81 years.

ON AN INFANT.

WHAT blessing shall I ask for thee
In the sweet dawn of infancy ?

That which our Saviour at his birth
Brought down with him from heaven to earth.

What in the wayward path of youth,
Where falsehood walks abroad as truth ?
By that good spirit to be led,

Which John saw resting on his head.

What in temptation's wilderness,
When wants assail and fears oppress ?
To wield, like Him, the scripture-sword,
And vanquish Satan by "The Word."

What in the labour, pain, and strife,
Combats and cares of daily life?
In his cross-bearing steps to tread,
Who had not where to lay his head.

What in the agony of heart,

When foes rush in, and friends depart ?
To pray, like Him, the Holy One,
"Father, thy will, not mine, be done!"

What in the bitterness of death,
When the last sigh ends the last breath?
Like Him thy spirit to commend,

And up to paradise ascend.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THE SABBATH EVENING.

THE light of Sabbath eve,
Is fading fast away;
What record will it leave
To crown the closing day ?

Is it a Sabbath spent

Fruitless, and vain, and void P
Or have the moments lent
Been sacredly employed ?

How dreadful and how drear,
In that dark world of pain,
Will Sabbaths lost appear
That cannot come again.

Then, in that hopeless place,
The tortured soul will say,
"I had those hours of grace,
But cast them all away."

God of these Sabbath hours,
Oh may we never dare
To waste, in thoughts of ours,
The sacred day of prayer.

EDMESTON

THE POOL OF BETHESDA.

AROUND Bethesda's healing wave,
Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave
Its virtues to that holy spring,-
With earnest fixed solicitude,
Were seen the afflicted multitude.

Among them there was one whose eye
Had often seen the waters stirred,
Whose heart had often heaved the sigh,
The bitter sigh of hope deferred;
Beholding while he suffered on
The healing virtue given and gone.

No power had he; no friendly aid
To him its timely succour brought;
But while his coming he delayed,
Another won the gift he sought,
Until the Saviour's love was shewn,
Which healed him by a word alone.

Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel by his glad descent,
Dispenses that diviner dower,

Which with its healing waters went;
But He whose power surpassed its wave,
Is still omnipotent to save.

BARTON,

HEAVEN.

THERE is a region, lovelier far
Than sages tell, or poets sing;
Brighter than summer's beauties are,
And softer than the tints of spring.

It is not found by summer's gale;
'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers;
It never needs the moonbeam pale,-
For there are known no evening hours.

No; for this world is ever bright
With a pure radiance all its own:
The streams of uncreated light

Flow round it, from th' eternal throne.

It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose;

No cloud obscures the radiant scene-
There not a tear of sorrow flows.

In vain the philosophic eye

May seek to view the fair abode,

Or find it in the curtained sky:

It is

THE DWELLING-PLACE OF GOD.