Success on the Bard may bestow

The myrtle-wreath, meed of his lays; And brightly and gaily that trophy may glow

In the sunshine of popular praise :

But if Virtue have turn'd from his page with disgust, Soon, soon shall the trophy surrender its trust.

A king in his crown may rejoice;

And Rank of its titles be proud;

The Singer exult in the charms of his voice;
And Pomp in the gaze of a crowd;

And the martyr of Wealth, render'd poor by his store,
Be bow'd to by those who his Idol adore.

Yet the King must descend from his throne

When the day of JEHOVAH shall come;

And titles be trustless, and Pomp stand alone,
And the voice of the Singer be dumb ;-

And Mammon, once worshipp'd, be loath'd and abhorr'd,

In the just and the terrible day of THE LORD!

Then who with acceptance shall stand

In the presence of glory and light,

Having palm-branch, or censer, or harp in the hand,

And array'd in apparel of white,—

While that volume its awful contents shall reveal,

Which THE LION OF JUDAH alone can unseal?

Even they who through great tribulation

Have worshipp'd the holy I AM!
Whose spiritual garments are pure by lavation
In the all-cleansing blood of THE LAMB!
'Tis these, and these only, by day and by night,
Shall kneel in his temple, and stand in his sight.

From them must the chorus ascend

Which shall peal through the confines of space, Of ❝ Holy ! thrice holy! and praise without end

Unto God for the gift of HIS GRACE ;—

And praise to THE LAMB, who for mortals was slain, Yet liveth for ever and ever to reign!"

In that heavenly and heart-thrilling song,

O Woolman! can silence be thine?

Or wilt thou not join with the jubilant throng
In Hosannas to glory divine?-

Even such the fruition Faith whispers for Thee,
Nor happier nor holier could recompense be.

For, since those miraculous days

When marvellous wonders were rife,

When the blind gaz'd with joy, and the dumb sang with praise,

And the dead were restor'd unto life,

I know not of one whom my heart could allow
More worthy the name of APOSTLE than Thou.

Though not upon thee were out-pour'd

The gifts of that primitive age,

When wonders and signs spoke the power of THE LORD,

And baffled Priest, Monarch, and Sage,

In the heart's secret temple an altar was thine,
And a Priesthood was given in the innermost shrine.

Not to outward and visible sense

Did that Priesthood or Altar appeal;

Yet pure were the oracles utter'd from thence,
And stamp'd with a questionless seal,

A seal which their spirits who felt them confest
By the power of thy CRUCIFIED MASTER imprest.

His glory alone was thy aim,

His kingdom's advance was thy scope;

And THE CROSS which He bore, with its suff'ring

and shame,

The object and end of thy Hope!

By faith in this hope was thy spirit sustain'd, Through that Cross was the Crown of Apostleship

gain'd.

Then well may I think of thy Name,

Meek follower of Bethlehem's Child!

As enwreath'd with a glory more touching than Fame, By which the vain world is beguil'd;

That glory by CHRIST and HIS GOSPEL made known, Which proclaims not THY praise, but THY MASTER'S

alone!

THE POET'S LOT.

ASKEST thou what it is to be

A Poet?—I will tell thee what ;

And show the thoughtless world, and thee, weary lot.

His

It is to sacrifice each good

That Fortune's favour'd minions share;

And in unheeded solitude

Her frowns to bear.

It is to nourish hopes that cheat;

Which, when he felt them first beat high, Appear'd so humble, blameless, sweet, They could not die.