'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill-
Oh, no!-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

I SAW THY FORM.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, vail'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!
Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying-
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,

What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us— "Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal?"

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers."

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness breaking through!

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity!

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

1 Pii orant tacite.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in their furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light-

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there!

Till David touch'd his sacred lyre,
In silence lay the unbreathing wire-
But when he swept its chords along,
Even angels stoop'd to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord,
Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord-
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,1
When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud-no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs ;-
Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy Freedom in her wings!

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven;
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way—
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

THOU ART, O GOD!

Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of Even,

The carrier pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.

1

And we can almost think we gaze

Through golden vistas into heaven-
Those hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are Thine!

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are Thine!

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!

THOMAS DICK, 1774.

No author of the nineteenth century has a higher claim upon the respect and gratitude of the world than the venerable Christian philosopher, Dr. Thomas Dick. He was born near Dundee on the 24th of November, 1774. His father, a linen manufacturer, was distinguished no less for his intelligence than for his eminent Christian character, and his mother, a woman of exemplary piety, taught him to read the New Testament before he entered any school: thus he had the early advantages of the best of all schools, a truly Christian home.

A simple incident early directed the studies of Dr. Dick to astronomy. When only nine years old, while walking in his father's garden about nine o'clock in the evening, his attention was directed by a maid-servant to the north, which was quite suddenly illuminated by the Aurora Borealis. He was struck with amazement as well as terror; and so powerful was the impression made upon his mind that he was very early led to make eager inquiries for such books as would reveal to him some of the mysteries of astronomy and meteorology; and he actually constructed a rude telescope himself, by which he could see the rings of Saturn. His father, seeing the strong bent of his son's mind, had good sense enough not to keep him any longer in his factory, and at the age of sixteen he began to study Latin, with the view of entering the university.

In 1794 he became a student of the University of Edinburgh, and in the spring of 1795 was nominated teacher to the Orphans' Hospital in that city. Here he continued two years, and then left to pursue his academical studies. About this time his mind began to be impressed with serious religious views, and the study of the Scriptures and works upon divinity and theological criticism engrossed much of his thought and attention. In 1801, having gone through the regular course of study as a student of divinity in the Secession Church, he obtained his