be used to build upon the cause of truth among those around us: hence the maxim, that "charity begins at home," is urged too often against the demands for the good of heathen lands. The plea, however, proceeds upon the false assumption that we have reached the maximum of benevolent effort--that the source whence we are to draw our means of usefulness, is like a reservoir of limited and ascertained capacity, whose streams must diminish in volume as they increase in number.

But what rational man can suppose that the means of the church of God are so stinted, or that she is doing now a tithe of what she can do, and of what she will shortly do, in fulfilling the commands and carrying on the enterprises of her Master? On the other hand, we have not as yet at all developed her resources. Our experience thus far has proved, that the source of our means, instead of being of limited and ascertained capacity, is rather like a living spring which yields more and more as supplies are drawn from it. We need no more than the church of God already has, to accomplish all her high purposes; but we do need something to enlarge her heart, and draw out her resources, and direct the streams of her benevolence into right channels, and nothing will answer this end but the spirit of foreign missions; and as that spirit rises higher and higher in the bosoms of her members, means will not be wanting for her work. When they generally apprehend that "the

field is the world," then even self-denial and sacrifice will be far more easy than the bestowment of the scanty pittance which is now consecrated to Christ; and "Holiness unto the Lord" written upon every thing, will show upon what principle we gather our means, and to what end we consecrate them.

If Zion, then, is to arise and shine-if the influence of the gospel is to spread throughout our own land-if the church of God is to strengthen her stakes, and righteousness is to run down our streets like a mighty river, it will be through the blessing of God upon the spirit which looks over the world, and seeks to bring its countless thousands to the obedience of the truth.

The Captive

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Ir was past the hour of trysting,
But she lingered for him still;
Like a child, the eager streamlet
Leaped and laughed adown the hill,
Happy to be free at twilight,

From its toiling at the mill.

Then the great moon, on a sudden,
Ominous, and red as blood,

Startling as a new creation,

O'er the eastern hill-top stood, Casting deep and deeper shadows Through the mystery of the wood.

Dread closed huge and vague about her,
And her thoughts turned fearfully
To her heart, if there some shelter
From the silence there might be,

Like dead cedars leaning inland
From the blighting of the sea.

Yet he came not, and the stillness Dampened round her like a tomb; She could feel cold eyes of spirits

Looking on her through the gloom; She could hear the groping footsteps Of some blind, gigantic Doom.

Suddenly the silence wavered
Like a light mist in the wind,
For a voice broke gently through it,
Felt like sunshine by the blind,
And the dread, like mist in sunlight,
Furled serenely from her mind.

“Once, my love, my love forever,
Flesh or spirit, still the same,
If I missed the hour of trysting,
Do not think my faith to blame,-

I, alas, was made a captive,
As from Holy Land I came.

"On a green spot in the desert,
Gleaming like an emerald star,
Where a palm-tree, in lone silence
Yearning for its mate afar,
Droops above a silver runnel,

Slender as a scimetar,

"There thou'lt find the humble postern To the castle of my foe;.

If thy love burn clear and faithful,
Strike the gateway green and low,
Ask to enter, and the warder
Surely will not say thee no.

"Wrap around me, for an instant,
The warm lustre of thine eyes,
Coldly gleams this northern moonlight,
Coldly bend these northern skies,—
Ah, farewell! I hear the matins
Sung e'en now in Paradise."

Slept again the aspen silence,
But her loneliness was o'er;
Round her heart a motherly patience
Wrapt its arms for evermore;
From her soul ebb'd back the sorrow,
Leaving smooth the golden shore.

Donned she now the pilgrim scallop,
Took the pilgrim staff in hand;
Like a cloud-shade, flitting eastward,
Wandered she o'er sea and land;

Her soft footsteps in the desert
Fell like cool rain on the sand.