down to besiege," does no thought of the promise yet to come thrill our hearts and awaken our attention, when the remnants of the hosts of Judah shall take root downwards and bear fruit upwards, when the lost tribes of the house of Israel shall be found, and brought again to their vines and fig-trees, to their heritage in the land of Canaan, when "the kingdoms of this world shall be the kingdoms of our God and of his Christ?" Yet, in the twilight of time, is this mighty manifestation of Divine mercy and sublime splendour.

But faith which looks for the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, looks, also, for the day decreed before all time, whose blessed fulfilment shall be ratified ere time shall be no more. To that day then trust, O Children of Israel, O Jews, of many sorrows. It shall be your balm of Gilead, your manna in the wilderness, a refuge set apart for the chosen of Jehovah, a rest that remaineth for the people of God. Then the trials of time will be over, and the endurance of earth ended. And, pilgrim at the sepulchre, there is yet another Jerusalem on high, far in the beatific regions of immortal day, in the sanctified loveliness of celestial spheres. In the beauty of primeval excellence, in the lustre of concentrated splendour, in the radiance of dazzling sunbeams, in the temple of the highest glory, rises that city of pure gold as it were transparent glass, the walls of sapphire, and the gates of pearl. Now it is a sealed book to all in this mortal hemisphere, in this vale of tears, but when the days of the years of the statutes are fulfilled, when the particles of time shall be swelled into the aggregate of eternity, then shall the call be given, the summons be issued.

Then the archangel shall stand, one foot on sea, and one on land. In his hand shall wave the trumpet, at whose awful sound the earth shall disclose her graves, and the ocean deliver up its dead. At whose echoes creation shall be renewed, and the myriads of corrupt clay shall burn with living light.

Then, when summoned to the bar on high, there bursts on our enraptured sight the holy city, to which, through inspired eyes, has the vision of the great and glorious been directed, for which the lips of Isaiah were touched with heavenly fire, for which tuned his lyre the sweet singer of Israel, in which are assembled a glorious company of apostles, a goodly fellowship of prophets, and a noble army of martyrs, round whose portals are ranged the winged cherubs of light, at whose threshold attend saints and seraphs for ever. What strains of tuneful rapture shall resound, what anthems of rejoicing melody shall mingle with the glorious songs that the countless hosts of the redeemed shall cause to reverberate round the throne of the

mighty king! "And the ransomed of the Lord shall come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain peace and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away for ever."

If such the mighty mysteries connected with this sainted city, let us look in veneration at its earthly type and shadow, and view, in Jerusalem militant below, the symbol and earnest of Jerusalem triumphant above, and treat its children with that profundity of respect, and depth of interest, which is meet for those who are heirs of a glorious promise, partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light. Then may we experience, that blessed are the peacemakers, amid this strife of earth, and hereafter share the blessedness of the merciful, throughout the calm of countless ages in heaven. Jerusalem, we leave thee! but, as we take a last glance at thy sacred towers, over which the Prince of Peace arose with healing on his wings, it is with firm trust and blessed assurance of the dawn of that Sun of Righteousness, which the Lord has promised, in the fulness of time, shall be manifested before the face of all men, to be a light to lighten his holy city, to be the glory of his people Israel.

THE SENATOR'S WIFE.

BY MRS. ABDY.

HER books lie unopened, unheeded before her,
Her birds are neglected, untended her flowers,
Fair, gentle, and gifted, what cloud has come o'er her,
What trouble disturbs the smooth course of her hours?
Oh! not for herself are her sighs and her sorrow,
She hears daily rumours of faction and strife,
And fears for the many, and doubts of the morrow,
Invade the calm mind of the senator's wife.

She pictures increasing, unchecked agitations,
She dwells upon kingdoms assailed and o'erthrown,
These ills have descended on neighbouring nations,
How soon may their influence reach to our own!

Must England, indeed, be despoiled of her glory,
And torn by domestic division and strife?
Must the land become pitied and censured in story,
So dear to the heart of the senator's wife?

The loved one possessing her tender affection,

Holds place with the wise and the good, who exert
The powers of their mind for a nation's protection,
To keep it from error, and shield it from hurt.
The senator, active, unselfish, unfearful,

Devotes to his country time, labour, and life ;-
But only by sympathy silent and tearful,

Can the zeal be evinced of the senator's wife!

Time passes, her loved one is still at a distance,
How best can she lighten the load of her care?
She turns to the only true source of assistance,

She sinks on her knees, and is fervent in prayer;
The rich and the poor in her words are united,

She would shelter them all from the evils of life, None, none are forgotten, uncared for, or slighted, In the deep, earnest prayer of the senator's wife,

Oh! deem not such suppliant prayers unavailing,
New dangers are hourly besetting our way;

When the courage and strength of the mighty are failing,
Let them turn to the feeble, who tremble and pray:
And the rainbow of peace may arise o'er the waters,
And England may weather the tempest of strife,
While her courts and her cottages triumph in daughters,
Pure, pious, and true, as the senator's wife.

TO HELEN.

My beautiful, my beautiful, oh! would that I could be
A guardian spirit of the air, to hover over thee,

To catch thine eyes' celestial fire, thy red lips' sunny smile,
To feel myself as if borne up in Paradise the while.

Thine eyes' soft light, to me more bright than morning's fairer beams,

Floats o'er my soul midst daily toil, and night's more tranquil

dreams;

And still my spirit burns, and still my blood runs high,

As if I yet could hear thy voice-as if thou still wert nigh.

It may be that our paths through life may wander far apart,
Thy gentle voice and love may glad another's happy heart;
And real life may bring to me its trouble and its pain,
And the hand I seek to call my own, I ne'er may clasp again.

And yet for thee, most earnestly, I e'en would breathe the

prayer,

That heaven would shield thy pilgrimage, and bless thee every

where ;

That through life's chequer'd April day-its sunshine and its show'rs,

Smiles still may play upon thy cheek-still at thy feet be flowers.

All that thy young heart seeks, e'en would I wish for thee,
Affection's fairest gifts in peace and purity;

That thus thine heart with sorrow may never broken lie,
Like some pale flower torn from its stem, and lost all witheringly.

Live on and love, for life is short, and hastens as a dream,
Be still what thou hast been to me, a bright celestial beam;
And still for thee my prayers shall rise, in words I may not tell,
And still my heart will bless thee-my beautiful, farewell.

J. EWING RITCHIE.

LITERATURE.

NEW POEMS.

Pharaoh: A Dramatic Poem.

By the Rev. Samuel Spink. Reprinted from the Metropolitan Magazine. London Kent and Richards.

Adrian: A Tragedy in Five Acts. London: Bosworth, Regent Street.

Hours of Recreation; a Collection of Poems written at the Age of Twenty-one. By Charles S. Middleton. London: John Rus sell Smith, 4, Old Compton Street, Soho Square.

No heavier burden can fall to the lot of man, than the task of reviewing the thousand poems that are, even in these dull times, issuing from the press. If we have but few poets, it may be said of the pretenders to that honoured name, that they are Legion. Poems, truly called such, are rare as angels' visits are said to be, for few angels have come to us, and we cannot speak with authority, but books professing to be poems are thick as

"Autumnal leaves in Vallambrosa."

Of such every publisher's ware-rooms are full; of such, pastrycooks and trunk-makers know well the use. This is an evil under the sun, of which we have long complained, but which appears as incorrigible as ever; not that, however, it has not its advantages. It certainly is good for trade; it employs papermakers and printers, and it gives us, of the ungentle craft, as Southey termed reviewing, a most delightful opportunity of showing our wonderful superiority to the unfortunate upon whom we sit in judgment. It is not, however, for any such purpose, that we invite the attention of the reader to the works whose titles are prefixed to this article. They are all of them such as, for one reason or another, we would commend.

The first on our list is "PHARAOH," with which the readers of the "Metropolitan" are already acquainted. We are glad to see it reprinted, as its beauties render it worthy of extensive circulation. Of sacred dramas, we have but few in our language; and, with the exception of Milman's, but few of them have any claim to popularity. In his attempt, our author has admirably succeeded, and Pharaoh : A Dramatic Poem," has