NIGHT-MUSINGS.

HASTEN, O Lord! that happy time
When, through thy Spirit's light,
Our souls shall offer songs sublime
To thee in hours of night;

And own that "few and evil days"
Are far too brief to chant thy praise.

Hasten the hour, when songs shall rise
From hearts that long have slept,
As when with holy sacrifice
Solemnity is kept;

And gladness of the heart is known
Before thine omnipresent throne.

As when, with pipe's melodious sound,
One goeth to thy Hill,

To spread thy glorious praise around,
And magnify thy will,

Telling what gracious deeds are done
By ancient Israel's Mighty One.

Not songless would night-watches be,
If, through the hours of day,

Our hearts, O Lord! were turn'd to Thee,
Their surest, holiest stay;

With earnest cravings to be fed
By thee with daily, living bread.

But we, a fall'n and sinful race,
In quest of shadows roam,
O'erlook the treasures of thy Grace,
Forget our future home;

And day's delights, its cares, and noise,
Leave Night no zest for holy joys.

O! hasten, then, that happier hour,
When bright within shall shine
Thy Holy Spirit's teaching power,
With ministry divine,

Whose sacred teachings strength can give,
And bid the soul obey and live!

When, through thy Son's great sacrifice,
Our souls shall pardon find,

And feel, and own how vast the price
He paid for lost mankind—

A thought, a feeling, that should raise
Unceasing gratitude and praise :-

Then shall a song, as in the night,
Be given to Man to sing,

And earth's brief darkness shall seem bright
Through Heaven's Eternal King:

Day unto day shall utter speech;
Night unto night shall knowledge teach.

A MEMORIAL OF MARY DYER,

ONE OF THE EARLY WORTHIES AND MARTYRS IN THE SOCIETY OF QUAKERS.

WE too have had our Martyrs. Such wert Thou,
Illustrious Woman! though the starry crown
Of martyrdom have sate on many a brow,
In the World's eye, of far more wide renown.

Yet the same spirit grac'd thy fameless end,
Which shone in Latimer, and his compeers,
Upon whose hallow'd memories still attend
Manhood's warm reverence, Childhood's guileless

tears.

Well did they win them: may they keep them long!

Their names require not praise obscure as mine; Nor does my Muse their cherish'd memories wrong, By this imperfect aim to honour thine.

Heroic Martyr of a sect despis'd!

Thy name and memory to my heart are dear: Thy fearless zeal, in artless childhood priz'd, The lapse of years has taught me to revere.

Thy Christian worth demands no Poet's lay,
Historian's pen, nor Sculptor's boasted art:
What could the proudest tribute these can pay
To thy immortal spirit now impart ?

Yet seems it like a sacred debt to give

The brief memorial thou mayst well supply; Whose life display'd how Christians ought to live; Whose death-how Christian Martyrs calmly die.

R