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will be given, in due time, I do not doubt. The earth is the Lord's. His I am; and, for his great name sake, I am willing to sacrifice my little all, and to be one of his poor run-abouts, till he is pleased to call me home. After one more trip to Georgia, I am to set out on my Spring journey, and hope to meet Captain Grant at Philadelphia. I am glad he is acquainted with you. He is honest and guileless. Such your honest heart values and loves. The Lord Jesus bless and prosper you and yours, ever more and more!

Continue to pray for me, and thereby encrease the obligations already laid upon, my dear Mr. Savage,

Yours most affectionately,

in our common Lord,.

G. WHITEFIELD.

P.S.-I hope some souls have been lately brought under conviction. Grace! grace!

To Mr. Savage.

VIII.

Newcastle, Oct. 17, 1752. MY VERY DEAR FRIEND-Though I am about to take horse for Sunderland, yet I must not forget to send a few more lines to one whom I so dearly love. Blessed be God! we have seen great things in Scotland. I preached in all, viz. at Edinburgh and Glasgow, during the month I stay'd there, about sixty times; and the longer I stay'd, the more the congregations, and the power that attended the word, encreased. Scarce ever less (in the evening especially) than near ten thousand attended. Many young men, that were awakened about ten years ago, are now able ministers of the New Testament. In my way hither, I preached at Berwick, Alnwick, and Morpeth. Good, I trust, was done. Here I have preached sometimes, and a whole shower of divine blessings hath descended from above. Oh, that my heart may sink low at Christ's feet, and my whole soul be swallowed up with his divine love! You must still follow me with your prayers. This and some part of the next week I am to spend in Yorkshire, &c. I expect to see London in about

like most others accursed with slaves, disappointed the hopes and exhausted the property of its excellent, but, in this instance, short-sighted, founder.

NEW SERIES, No. 14.

a month. Fain would I stay out, as long as the weather will admit of fieldpreaching.

The congregation without was very large yesterday; and at five in the morning, I believe, above fifteen hundred attend. I am as well as such a pilgrim can expect to be. Once more, I entreat you'll pray for me. Once more, my dear, dear Sir, adieu! My tender love and respects await your yoke fellow and daughter. Accept the same, in the most grateful and cordial manner, from, my very dear Mr. SaYours, &c.

vage,

To Mr. Savage.

G. WHITEFIELD.

IX.-To Miss Savage.

Tabernacle-house, Nov. 24, 1752. MY DEAR LITTLE MAID - I received your kind letter, sent to Philadelphia, but a few days ago, and think it deserves an answer. My prayers you have continually; and as you are a child of many prayers, I trust this will engage you to pray earnestly for yourself. The Lord Jesus delights to hear his little lambs crying after him. He hath promised to carry them in his arms, and dandle them upon his knees. His Spirit already hath been often striving with you. Oh! that, with little Samuel, you may be enabled to say, "Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth!" This was the advice old Eli gave to Samuel; this is the advice I give to you. You will have no real happiness here, till you are truly converted. Without this, you can never be happy in the world to come. This your dear and honoured parents wait for, as do the holy angels, and your Father which is in heaven. Oh, give them reason to rejoice over you, and say unto the ever blessed Jesus, "Turn me, O good Lord, and so shall I be turned!" He hath promised to give the Holy Spirit to them that ask it. That you may so ask as to receive, so seek that you may find, and so knock that a door of mercy may be opened to you, is and shall be the earnest prayer of, my dear, dear little Maid,

Your affectionate Soul's Friend,
for Christ's sake,

To Miss Savage. M

G. WHITEFIELD.

X.-To Mr. Savage.

Caermarthen, May 29, 1773. VERY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND-It is now between five and six in the morning, and I am setting out for Swanzy and Neath. Accept a few more hasty lines from a poor pilgrim, who loves you as his own soul. Thus far the Lord hath helped me in my Welsh circuit, at St. David's, Fisheard, Cardigan, Narboth, Pembroke, Haverford-west, and this town. I trust good hath been done. Every where the fields have been white, ready unto harvest. The congregations, especially at Haverford-west, have been great. It would have delighted you to have seen how many thousands came from far to hear the word, last Lord's day. I have generally preach'd twice a day, besides riding many miles. This impairs my weak body, but the

Lord vouchsafes to visit and refresh my poor soul. This encourages me to go on. Oh, that I may be continued in Christ's service till I die. I desire no other honour. With regret, I must bid you adieu, having a long journey to go, and two sermons to preach. I hope your dear yoke-fellow and little daughter are well. I always remember them and you; and, sending you both ten thousand thanks for all your marks of unmerited respect and love, I subscribe myself, my very dear, dear Sir,

Yours most affectionately,

in our common Lord,
G. WHITEFIELD.

Mr. Hervey writes me word, that he is printing his visitation sermon, for the benefit of a diseased and distressed

youth. I warrant it is a gospel one. To Mr. Savage.

POETRY..

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. "Sad was the condition of these poor men, who had winter before them, and no accommodations for their entertainment ! Most of them were reduced to a weak and sickly condition by their voyage, and now they were come to port, had no friends to welcome them, no houses to receive them, no physicians to take care of them. The country was full of woods and thickets, and began to look with a winter complexion besides, they were under apprehensions from the Indians, but they

dare not look back."

Neale's History of New England.

"Their dauntless hearts no meteor led
In horror o'er the ocean;
From fortune and from fame they fled
To heaven and its devotion."

An American Poet.

THE breaking waves dash'd high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd.

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of Exiles moor'd their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true hearted, came
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame.

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The ocean-eagle soar'd

From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Why had they come to wither there,
Amidst that pilgrim band;-
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye

Lit by her deep love's truth:
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar,
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas-the spoils of war,
They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left undimm'd what there they found-

Freedom to worship God!

New Monthly Mag.

THE SABBATH.

"This is the day the Lord hath made: we will rejoice and be glad in it."-Psalm cxviii. 24.

WHEN first at its Creator's will,

This beauteous world from chaos sprung, Echoing o'er mountain, flood, and hill, Swiftly the first-born anthem rung. Bright cherubs watch'd revolving spheres Burst from the chambers of their rest, New sounds salute their list'ning ears,

As worlds break forth in verdure drest. Those days are past, but nobler songs, Thro' endless space each wind conveys, Seraphs, in bright and countless throngs, Press on, to join the angelic lays. "Now death and hell are vanquish'd pow'rs, Jesus the Lord has died for sin," "Open ye everlasting doors

And let the mighty conq'ror in." The chorus swells, ten thousand strings Are tuned, the rising God to bless, "He comes, with healing on his wings The Sun, the Sun of Righteousness." Such themes are theirs-the house of pray'r This day shall echo back their strains, And mingling vows and praises there, Our notes shall reach those blissful plains. There told of better worlds than this, Of joys more peaceful and serene; Hope points to more enduring bliss, "Than ear hath heard, or eye hath seen." So Moses upon Pisgah's height

Beheld the wide spread promis'd lands: So broke on Israel's aching sight, Fair Elims palms on desert sands.

More kind to us, one day in seven,

He gives, to sketch our journey through, Throws back the veil twixt earth and heav'n And makes our Sabbaths Elims too.

For though beyond this mortal scene,
Material eye hath never prest,
Faith still can pierce the world unseen,
And scale the barriers of the blest.

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From passion's mad and wild desires,
From envy's dark and hateful fires,
From pride's rebellious impious sway,
From error's blind and devious way,
From Satan's deep, malignant snares,
From faithless doubts and foolish fears,
From foes without and foes within,
From secret and presumptuous sin.
From these, O Lord, thy chosen keep,
From these protect thy wand'ring sheep,
And Israel's song again shall be,
"The Lord hath triumphed gloriously."
Δ.

་་་་་་་་·

LINES ADDRESSED TO A SISTER ON HER BIRTH-DAY, JAN. 1826. FORGIVE a poor intruding muse,

Who knows not how to write,
But yet unable to refuse

One feeling to indite.
Accept much sympathy, my love,
That on a day like this,
Sadness is chequer'd with the joy
That warms your birth-day kiss.
may the new born year
Much happiness unfold,
Much temporal good to you appear,

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Dear

And pleasures yet untold. May God with you this year endure, Each pain or pleasure bless, And seal your interest clear and sure In Christ your righteousness. One caution may I now intreat― (You with myself I blend,) Remember youth and years are fleet, And life itself must end. My wishes fain I would expand,

(You well the feeling know,) O may the dear domestic band In grace and wisdom grow. Adieu, and may an abler bard Attempt with more success To pen the feelings of regard Which I would fain express.

་་་་་་་་་་

A SONNET.

SOROR.

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O'er the blue dome of this fair vernal day.

'Tis true we see thy tabernacle lie,

Hueless and cold as marble in the arms Of death; and while the agonizing eye Again-again surveys thy fleeting charms, We think thy snowy breast is faintly heaving Over the purple tide that's softly leaving Its channels, where 'mid health it ceaseless flow'd,

While yet the vital spirit on it rode.

The lodge is left, the ethereal tenant, free, Hath reach'd the brighter shores of immortality.

T. A.

REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Memoirs and Poetical Remains of the late Jane Taylor; with Extracts from her Correspondence. By Isaac Taylor. In two vols. London: Holdsworth.

(Concluded from page 34.)

It is not surprising that the death of so many of her intimate friends, successively, in one family, should have produced a deep impression on such a mind as Jane Taylor's; especially as these instances were succeeded, her biographer informs us, by the loss of several other endeared companions. Death seems often to pass by the common multitude of the mature and the aged, in order to poise his fatal dart at the young, the lovely, and the refined; and just at the moment when the artist would have wished to take their likeness-and love to have claimed them for his own, consumption begins its ravages, and soon brings them to an untimely grave. Such instances as these are occurring every day; and while they draw tears from every eye, they constitute an especial and affect ing memento to our youthful fair, of the frailty of beauty, and the necessity of an early and decided attention to the interests of the world to come.

The subject of this memoir was not a stranger to the operation of religious principles on her mind from her most youthful days; but, on account of the deep susceptibility, and pensive tendency of her feelings, it was long before she obtained that full consolation which it is the province of religion to impart, though it is obvious her conduct was early regulated by its influence. Minds of a certain class are often destined to pass through a peculiar process; and it is not until the fiery ordeal of affliction has been endured that the pure.

gold of Christianity comes forth in its genuine quality and lustre. Where common minds happily see little or nothing to perplex them, and exercise a direct and implicit belief, those of a turn profoundly reflective, and possessed of acute sensibilities, are apt to indulge in endless reveries on the mysteries of the faith, and the difficulties apparent in the conduct of Divine Providence. And such minds, it is probable, must take their course of speculation; they will find no rest till, like the dove of Noah, they have wandered awhile in vain over the unstable chaos of mystery that lies all around them, and return at last, fatigued and subdued, to the ark of the testimony of God. All this may take place while there is an habitual belief in the reality of religion, and a conscientious attention to its preceptive injunctions.

As an author, Miss Taylor first appeared in print in the year 1804, as a contributor to the Minor's Pocket Book, in a piece entitled, the Beggar Boy, now inserted in the Poetical Remains, and which, it appears, attracted notice by its sprightliness and pathos. Subsequently was published the little volume of "Original Poems for Infant Minds, by several Young Persons;" in which she and her sister had a prominent share. This work was so acceptable to children, and so much approved by parents, that it not only obtained an extensive circulation in England soon after its publication, but it was reprinted in America, and even translated into German. In consequence of this success, a second volume of Original Poems was published by the same contributors. Not long after appeared, the Rhymes for the Nursery;" in which our authoress

66

had also a considerable share. These met with equal success, and though in order to adapt them to the capacity of very young children, they are more familiar in their phraseology than the former, they are, in many instances, perhaps, superior in poetic merit.

Her contributions to the volume entitled, the "Associate Minstrels," are placed in the Poetical Remains, that work being now out of print. As these were not written with any view whatever to publication, but only for the gratification of a select circle of friends, who took their share in the authorship of the collection, they may be regarded as a kind of literary deshabille, or an at home view of the author. Yet several of these pieces are, probably, as pleasing and beautiful as any thing she has written; witness the "Birth-day Retrospect," and the "Remonstrance to Time."

The above-mentioned productions for children, we trust, will for ever displace from the nursery, the absurdities of "Tom Thumb," and "Jack the Giant-Killer;" with all the wonderful stories which, however they may amuse the infant mind, can scarcely fail, in various degrees, to do it harm. These publications were succeeded by another, still intended for the same little readers, but of a nature more immediately religious. We allude to the "Hymns for Infant Minds;" in which Miss Taylor took a prominent part. To convey just impressions on a subject so spiritual, to the human mind at its very dawn, must be allowed to be no very easy task. It has been well remarked by Dr. Johnson, in his life of Dr. Watts, that those who understand human nature will admire the writer who could, at one time, discuss metaphysical questions with Locke, and at another compose a catechism intelligible to infants of four years old; accordingly, it is not Surprising that these "Hymns"

should have cost the author more Labour than, perhaps, any of the other "Remains;" as "one might judge," says the biographer, "from the intricate interlineations, and multiplied revisions," which appear in the manuscript copy. The spirit in which this benevolent effort to promote the interests of the infant race was made, appears from the following extract:

"I think, says my sister, in a letter of this date, I have some idea of what a child's hymn ought to be; and when I commenced the task, it was with the prethese should fall short of the standard I sumptuous determination that none of had formed in my mind. In order to this, my method was to shut my eyes, and imagine the presence of some pretty little mortal, and then endeavour to catch, as it were, the very language it would use on the subject before me. If in any instances I have succeeded, it is to this little imaginary being I would attribute my success; and I have failed so frequently, because so frequently compelled to say, now you may go my dear, I shall finish the hymn myself.'

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About the year 1810, Miss Taylor's taste for the beauties of nature, which her previous cultivation of the art of engraving and drawing enabled her the more to enjoy, was gratified by a visit to the romantic scenery of North Devon. Accustomed before to the flat uniformity of Essex, or the smoke of London, this change could not fail of being productive of delight. Those who have only seen the bolder features of nature on paper, feel that the impression was feeble, even from the best representations, when they come actually to converse with her living form. The effect produced by the first near view of a mountain, for instance, or a torrent, is a feeling not to be imagined, while we only move in the tame monotony of our more southern landscapes. Hence Miss Taylor, from having formerly been assiduously occupied within doors, was to be found, while at Ilfracombe, spending her time in rambling over the wild and interesting scenery its vicinity afforded,

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