of wo,

Who best can drink his cup

Triumphant over pain,

Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in his train.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
Who saw his Maker in the sky,
And called on Him to save.

Like Him, with pardon on his tongue
In midst of mortal pain,

He prayed for them that did the wrong.
Who follows in his train?

A glorious band, the chosen few,

On whom the Spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,
And mocked the cross and flame.

They met the tyrant's brandished steel,
The lion's gory mane;

They bowed their necks the death to feel.
Who follows in their train?

A noble army-men and boys,

The matron and the maid-
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of light arrayed.

They climb the steep ascent of heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain!
O God! to us may grace be given
To follow in their train!

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

WEEP not, O mother, sounds of lamentation;
Weep not, O widow, weep not hopelessly!
Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation!

Strong is the Word of God to succor thee!

Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him ; Hide his pale features with the sable pall; Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him,

Widowed and childless, she has lost her all.

Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping?
Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed?
"Set down the bier-he is not dead, but sleeping!
Young man, arise!" He spake, and was obeyed!

Change then, O sad one, grief to exultation;
Worship and fall before Messiah's knee.
Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation!
Strong was the Word of God to succor thee.

EPIPHANY.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid.

Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining,
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall;
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining-

Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom, and offerings divine;

Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean ;
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation,

Vainly with gold would his favor secure ;

Richer by far is the heart's adoration,

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid.

MISSIONS.

FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand,
Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand;
From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain,
They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile:

In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone.

Shall we, whose souls are lighted

With wisdom from on high;
Shall we, to men benighted
The lamp of life deny ?
Salvation! oh, salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name.

Waft, waft ye winds, His story,
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,
It spreads from pole to pole:
Till o'er our ransomed nature,
The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign.

BERNARD BARTON,

A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, is the author of numerous poems, marked alike by sweetness of versification, and tender and Christian feeling. A collection of Bernard Barton's poems has recently been published, under the title of "Household Verses."

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth."-Ps. xc. 6.

I WALKED the fields at morning's prime,

The grass was ripe for mowing;
The skylark sang his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,
His pulse with rapture beating,

Deems life's inheritance is joy-
The future proudly greeting."

I wandered forth at noon :-Alas!
On earth's maternal bosom

The scythe had left the withering grass,
And stretched the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,
Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed,
Through lonely hay-fields musing,

While every breeze that round me played,
Rich fragrance was diffusing.