cross.

The

Christ the Redeemer, unless we have been first brought to know and believe in Christ the Crucified. crown of rejoicing can only be worn by those who have spiritually worn the crown of thorns. Those only can repose beneath the tree of life, who have often sunk half fainting beneath the dead and accursed tree of the "A celebrated father,"* (I quote here a passage of much beauty from the writings of a friend whom I value very highly †) says, in his fanciful manner, The very form of the death of Christ is more glorious than a diadem. Therefore kings, putting off the diadem, take up the cross, the symbol of His death: on the purple the cross, on diadems the cross, in prayers the cross, on arms the cross, on the holy table the cross; and in every quarter of the world the cross shines more glorious than the sun.' What in his days was fast quitting the heart and taking its place among the baubles of outside show, degenerating into the sign of a wretched superstition, let us, in accordance with purer times, resume spiritually in our bosoms. When we In our rise, the cross; when we lie down, the cross. thoughts, the cross; in our studies, the cross; in our conversation, the cross. Every where, and at every time, the cross shining more glorious than the sun. Yea, let this in our warfare below become our sign, and in this we shall conquer."

Chrysostom.

+ Evans' Church of God.

A HYMN.

1.

WHEN morn awakes our hearts,
To pour the matin prayer;
When toil-worn day departs,

And gives a pause to care;
When those our souls love best
Kneel with us, in thy fear,
To ask thy peace and rest—
Oh God our Father, hear!

II.

When worldly snares without,
And evil thoughts within,
Stir up some impious doubt,
Or lure us back to sin;
When human strength proves frail,
And will but half sincere ;

When faith begins to fail—

Oh God our Father, hear!

III.

When in our cup of mirth

The drop of trembling falls,

And the frail props of earth

Are crumbling round our walls;

When back we gaze with grief,
And forward glance with fear;
When faileth man's relief-

Oh God our Father, hear!

IV.

When on the verge we stand
Of the eternal clime,

And Death with solemn hand

Draws back the veil of Time;
When flesh and spirit quake

Before THEE to appear

For the Redeemer's sake,

Oh God our Father, hear!

INSCRIPTION.

T. P.

FOR A TOMB-STONE IN THE BURIAL-GROUND AT

DRYBURGH ABBEY.

A SCOTTISH patriarch lies buried here;
An upright man, a Christian sincere;
A frugal husbandman of th' olden style,
Who lived and died near this monastic pile.
A stone-cast from this spot his dwelling stood;
His farm lay down the margin of the flood;

Those moss-grown abbey orchards filled his store,
Though now scarce blooms a tree he trained of yore;
Amidst these ivyed cloisters hived his bees;
Here his young children gamboled round his knees;
And duly here, at morn and evening's close,
His solemn hymn of household worship rose.

His memory now hath perished from this place;
And over many lands his venturous race
Are scatter'd widely: some are in the grave;
Some still survive in Britain; ocean's wave
Hath wafted many to far Western woods
Laved by Ohio's and Ontario's floods :
Another band beneath the Southern skies

Have built their homes where Caffer mountains rise,
And taught wild Mancazana's willowy vale
The simple strains of Scottish Teviotdale.

A wanderer of the race, from distant climes
Revisiting this spot, hath penned these rhymes,
And raised this stone, to guard, in hallowed trust,
His kindred's memory and great-grandsire's dust;
Resting in hope, that at the Saviour's feet
They yet may re-unite, when Zion's pilgrims meet.

T. P.

THE WOODLAND BROOK.

GOOD-MORROW to thee, wild-wood brook,
A laughing glance hast thou,

A sweet voice, and a winsome look,
Beneath the forest bough.

Whence come thy silvery-sounding feet
Forth by my trysting bower?

And who have been thy play-mates sweet,
Since day-break's dewy hour?

Thy steps have been in pleasant dells,
Where honeysuckles bloom,

And lilies wave their snow-white bells

Amidst the yellow broom:

Thy song hath cheered the harebell blue,
Sweet bending o'er thy side,

And mingled with the cushat's coo,
Soft calling to his bride.

Then haste thee onward, gentle brook,

And tell thy pleasant tale

To her-the maid of sweetest look

That dwelleth in the vale:

Sing to her heart thy summer song

Of nature in its prime;

And ask her why she stays so long
Beyond our trysting time.

R. F. H.