THE HOUR FOR DEVOTION.

WHEN the moon's pale light is leaping
On the streamlet and the lake;

When the winds of Heaven are sleeping,
And the nightingale awake;-
And while mirror'd in the ocean
The bright orbs of Heaven appear.-
'Tis the hour of deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer.

When the autumn breeze is sighing
Through the leafless forest wide;
And the flowers are dead or dying,
Once the sunny garden's pride ;—
When the yellow leaves in motion,
Are seen whirling on the air,
'Tis an hour for deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to Heaven in prayer!

On his power and greatness ponder,
When the torrent, and the gale,
And the cataract and thunder,

In one fearful chorus swell:
Amidst nature's wild emotion
Is thy soul oppressed with care P
'Tis the hour of deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to Him in prayer.

In sorrow, and in sickness,
And in poverty and pain;
And in vigour, or in weakness,
On the mountain, or the plain:
In the desert, or the ocean,—

To the throne of love repair;
All are hours for deep devotion-
Lift thy soul to heaven in prayer.

VEDDER.

ON BEREAVEMENT.

LIFT up thine eyes, afflicted soul;
From earth lift up thine eyes;
Though dark the evening-shadows roll,
And daylight beauty dies,
One sun is set, a thousand more
Their rounds of glory run,

Where science leads thee to explore
In every star a sun.

Thus, when some long-loved comfort ends,
And nature would despair,

Faith to the heaven of heavens ascends,
And meets ten thousand there.
As.stars that seem but points of light,

The rank of suns assume,

First faint and small, then clear and bright, They gladden all the gloom.

J. MONTGOMERY.

AN EPITAPH ON A YOUNG

CHRISTIAN.

As from the bud the flower expands to view,
From infancy to smiling youth she grew,
When He who ever liveth, strong to save,
Resumed in love the boon his mercy gave.
His mediation she had learned to trust,

Not that of creatures, like herself, of dust;
His spotless righteousness she sought alone,
And cast away, as worthless, all her own;
Quickened by Him, to Him she lived on earth,
Evincing thus her new and heavenly birth
Her soul has early found its promised rest,
Angels have borne her to her Saviour's breast:
Oh! glorious end to each expiring pain!
To live with Christ and find that "death is gain."
R. W. KYLE.

CHRISTIAN FRIENDSHIP.

'Trs grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise,
If God gives health, that sunshine of our days;
And if he add a blessing shared by few,
Content of heart, more praises are his due.
But if he grant a friend, that gift possessed,
Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest:
And giving one whose heart is in the skies,
Born from above, and made divinely wise,
He gives, what bankrupt nature never can,
Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man,
Gold purer far than Ophir ever knew,

A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true.
COWPER

ON VISITING A SCENE OF
CHILDHOOD.

LONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene,
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of

green

The spot where, a school-boy all thoughtless I

strayed

By the side of the stream, in the gloon of the shade.

I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,

When the sky was so blue, and the flowers so fair,

All scattered !-all sundered by mountain and

wave,

And some in the silent embrace of the grave!

I thought of the green banks that circled around, With wild flower, sweet briar, and eglantine crown'd;

I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:

And I thought of the trees, under which I had strayed,

Of their broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;

And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to

find

Of the names, and the carving, impressed on the rind.

All eager, I hastened the scene to behold, Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old; And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore

This refuge, this haunt, beloved of yore.

'Twas a dream !-not a token or trace could I view,

Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew:

Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, "Like a tale that is told"-all had vanished away.

And methought the lone river, that murmured

along,

Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, Since the birds that had nestled and warbled above, Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove.

I paused and the moral came home to my

heart:

Behold, how of earth all the glories depart;
Our visions are baseless,--our hopes but a gleam,-
Our staff but a reed,-our life but a dream.

Then, O, let us look-let our prospects allure— To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure, To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime O'er the blightings of Change, and the ruin of Time.