HYMN.

Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ;
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse;
All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores;
These to Thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

When life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And Youth prepares his joys to meet,-
Alas, how hard it is to die!

When just is seized some valued prize, And duties press, and tender ties Forbid the soul from earth to rise,How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,-

Ah, then how easy 'tis to die!

When faith is firm, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,-
'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die!

When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,—
'Tis nature's precious boon to die!

LIFE.

Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh-a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night, but in some happier clime

Bid me Good Morning.

COUNTER-REMONSTRANCE.

I pr'ythee no more, dear importunate friend!
'Tis enough to have lavished advice to no end;
Your sage admonitions have reached me too late,
My purpose is fixed, and I stand by my fate.

To make great acquaintance, to live in high style, To figure in crowds with a nod and a smile, To loll in my chariot, and treat with French dishes, Were never the things that excited my wishes.

No mortal alive is less plagued with the itch Of haunting the steps of the titled and rich; And rather by far I'd converse with the dead, Than mix in the mobs of fine folks, finely bred. Then why should I truckle and simper and sneak, Be all things to all, and think twice ere I speak ; With caution each doubtful opinion conceal, Nor dare to express what I cannot but feel?

What want I in life to be bought at the price Of courting proud folly, or crouching to vice? What is there should tempt me my freedom to barter, Or a tittle to bate of an Englishman's charter ?

Shall the mind that has drawn from the poet and sage Some share of the nurture of every fair age, Shrink back with false shame or be dazzled with awe, When weakness or prejudice lays down the law? . . . Is it nought to be lord of a liberal breast? Is Truth a mere phantom, and Freedom a jest? Must we hold our opinions for better for worse, And confine all our study to filling the purse?

You say I'm dependent 'Tis true, my good friend, On my industry, skill, and good name I depend ; If such a reliance is built upon stubble,

'Tis time to depart, for this world is a bubble!

But better I augur-so clear up your brow; To my patron, The Public, some reason allow; The passion of bigots is not worth the heeding, While the world likes my service, 'twill give me a feeding.

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm ;
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of His boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive;
O do not lightly take away

The life thou canst not give !

BISHOP REGINALD HEBER.

When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil,

When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil;

When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the

flood,

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker

good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade;

The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy

glade;

The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his

way;

The moon and stars their Maker's name in silent pomp display.

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,— Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease

to be,

Thee, Father, must we always love-Creator, honour Thee.

The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer

fade;

The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the

shade;

The winds be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree;

But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to Thee!