Bow in the cloud! thy hues so bright

Return to undivided light;

Even so shall we, in God's dear Son,

With all our shades at length be one!

W. N. N.

"THEY SHALL MOUNT UP ON WINGS AS EAGLES."

PROUD bird of the mountain! thy pinion thou spreadest,
All-joyously seeking thy dwelling on high;

Not the bright sunbeam of summer thou dreadest,
No screen from the glow of its splendour thou needest,
Nor shrinkest appalled when the tempest is nigh.

And glorious communion thou holdest with heaven,
And visitest earth as a stranger and guest;
And the sunbeam of day, and the twilight of even,
Alike to the strength of thy vision are given,

Proud bird of the mountain! in majesty blest!

And such is the Christian, in safety abiding,

Tho' lightning and tempest encompass him round;
On the Rock of eternity firmly confiding,
In mercy's pavilion all-fearlessly hiding,

He refuge and strength with Jehovah hath found!

And where is the home of his spirit? Oh, listen

To the notes of his song as in music they swell;
Earth cannot his anthem of triumph imprison,
And the portals of heaven all-radiantly glisten,

As he looks on the home where ere long he shall dwell!

E. M. J.

THE BARREN FIG TREE.

LUKE XIII. 6.

BY THE REV. DR. RAFFLES.

"BARREN still this tree is found,
Lo, it cumbers still the ground:
Culture it has had for years,
But as yet no fruit appears.
Cut it down-why all this toil?
It no more shall curse the soil!"

But, the Dresser cries, " Forbear—

Let it stand another year.
Still it shall my care employ,
Then if fruit appear, with joy

At thy feet it shall be laid,
And my toil be well repaid."

Lord, this parable's for me:
I'm that dead and fruitless tree.
I within the vineyard stand,
Planted by thy gracious hand;
Yet, with all the Dresser's care,
Scanty is the fruit I bear.

I have peaceful Sabbath days,
I have hours of prayer and praise :

SONNETS.

THE WORLDLING TO THE POET.

POOR thoughtful fool, who from the careless throng,
Passed thy days in musing idleness,

And the vain visions of impassion'd song

'Mid which thy spirit, unrestrained and strong,

In words embodies what she should repress: Thoughts which alone unto thy tribe belong; Unfashionable virtues-Liberty.

The loveliness of truth, and sages old, Who labour'd in her cause, and suffered by The hate and venom of her enemy:

And wilt thou still in her lost cause be bold?

Beware, beware! And thy rash censure hold!

The world, as it was erst, is still the same,
Lose not thy present good, for future praise and fame.

THE POET TO THE WORldling.

I CANNOT change the colour of the thought,

With which my frame is full-nor yet conceal
The feelings which my heart is prone to feel.
I would be silent; but my mind when fraught
With its perceptions is a restless thing,
Wherewith it makes itself the fabled wing,

And revels in a world denied to thee,

Peopled with all that's bright and flourishing,

Where all is beauty, love, and purity;

This is not losing present good for fame,

But rising 'bove the present ill to good;

Therefore, poor Worldling, cease thy voice of blame,
Nor scorn a Poet and his solitude.

CAMBRIAN JONES.