With prayers, and thanks, and praises. Some there are Who hold it meet to linger now at home,

And some o'er fields and the wide hills to roam,

And worship in the temple of the air!

For me, not heedless of the lone address,

Nor slack to greet my Maker on the height,
By wood, or living stream; yet not the less
Seek I his presence in each social rite
Of his own temple: that He deigns to bless,
There still He dwells, and there is his delight.

DEAR is the ancient village church, which rears
By the lone yew, on lime or elm-girt mound,
Its modest fabric: dear, 'mid pleasant sound
Of bells, the gray embattled tower, that wears,
Of changeful hue, the marks of bygone years;
Buttress, and porch, and arch with mazy round
Of curious fret or shapes fantastic crowned;
Tall pinnacles, and mingled window-tiers,
Norman, or misnamed Gothic. Fairer spot
Thou givest not, England, to the tasteful eye,

Nor to the heart more soothing. Blest their lot,

Knew they their bliss, who own, their dwelling nigh,

Such resting-place; there, by the world forgot,
In life to worship, and, when dead, to lie!

WHAT varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles
Sweep o'er the ear, and claim the heart's reply!
Now the blithe peal of home festivity,

Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells:
Now the brisk chime, or voice of altered bells,
Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh:
And now the last stage of mortality

The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells.

How much of human life those sounds comprise ;

Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb'

Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise,

Such as befit our being, free from gloom Monastic,-prayer that communes with the skies, And musings mindful of the final doom.

THERE is a joy, which angels well may prize:

To see, and hear, and aid God's worship, when Unnumbered tongues, a host of Christian men, Youths, matrons, maidens, join. Their sounds arise, "Like many waters;" now glad symphonies

Of thanks and glory to our God; and then,
Seal of the social prayer, the loud Amen,
Faith's common pledge, contrition's mingled cries.
Thus, when the Church of Christ was hale and young,
She called on God, one spirit and one voice;
Thus from corruption cleansed, with health new strung,
Her sons she nurtured. Oh! be theirs, by choice,

What duty bids, to worship, heart and tongue;
At once to pray, at once in God rejoice!

PRAYER.

ERE the morning's busy rày

Call

you to your work away;

Ere the silent evening close

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose,

To lift your heart and voice in prayer

Be your first and latest care.

He, to whom the prayer is due,

From heaven his throne shall smile on you;

Angels sent by Him shall tend,

Your daily labor to befriend,
And their nightly vigils keep
To guard you in the hour of sleep.

When through the peaceful parish swells The music of the Sabbath-bells,

Duly tread the sacred road

Which leads you to the house of God;
The blessing of the Lamb is there,
And "God is in the midst of her."

And oh where'er your days be passed,
And oh! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo,
That service which to Heaven you owe,
That bounden service duly pay,

And God shall be your strength alway.

He only to the heart can give

Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death,

He can, He will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

ness.

FELICIA HEMANS.

MRS. HEMANS was born in Liverpool on the 21st of September, 1793. Her history is well known. An unhappy marriage embittered the larger part of her life, and after an illness singularly protracted and painful, she died, in Dublin, on the 16th of May, 1835. The most remarkable characteristics of Mrs. Hemans's poetry are a religious purity and a womanly delicacy of feeling, never exaggerated, rarely forgotten. Writing less of love, in its more special acceptation, than most female poets, her poems are still unsurpassed in feminine tenderDevotion to God, and quenchless affection for kindred, for friends, for the suffering, glow through all her writings. Her sympathies were not universal. They appear often to be limited by country, creed, or condition; and she betrays a reverent admiration for rank, power, and historic renown. Yet as the poet of home, a painter of the affections, she was perhaps the most touching and beautiful writer of her age. The tone of her poetry is indeed monotonous; it is pervaded by the tender sadness which forever preyed upon her spirit, and made her an exile from society; but it is all informed with beauty, and rich with most apposite imagery and fine descriptions. Many editions of the works of Mrs. Hemans have appeared in this country, of which the best, indeed the only one that has any pretensions to completeness, is that of Lea and Blanchard, in seven volumes, with a preliminary notice by Mrs. Sigourney.

THE AGED PATRIARCH.

Of life's past woes, the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch's face
Expression, holy, deep, resigned,
The calm sublimity of mind.

Years o'er his snowy head have passed,
And left him of his race the last;

Alone on earth, but yet his mien

Is bright with majesty serene;

And those high hopes, whose guiding star
Shines from eternal worlds afar,

Have with that light illumed his eye,
Whose fount is immortality,

And o'er his features poured a ray
Of glory not to pass away:
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone;

On earth by naught but pity's tie,
Detained a moment from on high;
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passions purified :
E'en now half-mingled with the sky,
And all prepared, oh! not to die,
But, like the prophet, to aspire
To heaven's triumphal car of fire.

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

FEAR was within the tossing bark,

When stormy winds grew loud; And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,

And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast:

As when the righteous fall asleep,

When death's fierce throes are past.