STANZAS.

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

How deep the joy, Almighty Lord,
Thy altars to the heart afford!

With envying eyes I see

The swallow fly to nestle there,
And find within the house of prayer

A bliss denied to me!

Compell'd by day to roam for food

Where scorching suns or tempests rude Their angry influence fling,

Oh! gladly, in that shelter'd nest,

She smooths at eve her ruffled breast, And folds her weary wing.

Thrice happy wanderer! fain would I, Like thee, from ruder climates fly,

That seat of rest to share;

Opprest with tumult, sick with wrongs, How oft my fainting spirit longs

To lay its sorrow there!

Oh! ever on that holy ground

The covering cherub Peace is founa,
With brooding wings serene;

And Charity's seraphic glow,
And gleams of glory that foreshow
A higher, brighter scene.

For e'en that refuge but bestows
A transient though a sweet repose,
For one short hour allow'd;

Then upwards we shall take our flight,
To hail a spring without a blight,

A heaven without a cloud!

K

(Original.)

THE WANING MOON.

A. R. C.

PALE moon! thou shedd'st a waning beam
Which scarce betrays thy steps on high;
Thy last faint streaks of silver seem
About to vanish from the sky.

What makes thy lessening orb so dim ?—
The glorious sun is still as bright;

'Tis earth's dark shade 'twixt thee and him, Sole fountain of thy borrow'd light.

Methinks, pale moon! in thee I trace
An emblem of the soul's decline-
The sad decay of Christian grace,
The waning of the life Divine.

Thou'rt like a heart where Christ hath shone, Turn'd from the source of light away, Unmindful that from Him alone

It borrows one reflected ray.

Thou'rt like a heart which once hath been With heavenly joys and glories fill'd, Where things of time have come between, And all its warm devotion chill'd.

But soon thy beams shall shine anew,
Thy spotless circle full appear;
That pallid streak I soon shall view

Gilding the heavens with radiance clear.

So with the heart which Jesus' smile
Had gladden'd with its healing ray;
Though it be dark and cold awhile,
He will command the shades away.

It is not He forsakes the heart

His changeless mercy once hath blest; "Tis we who faithlessly depart

Till He allures us back to rest.

THE CHURCHYARD.

JOHN BETHUNE.

АH me! this is a sad and silent city!
Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey

Its grassy streets, with melancholy pity !—

Where are its children? where their gleesome play?

Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep,

And slimy worms watch o'er them as they sleep!

This is pale beauty's bourn: but where the beautiful Whom I have seen come forth at evening hours, Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful,

Amid the wreaths of spring to gather flowers? Alas! no flowers are here, but flowers of death; And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.

This is a populous place: but where the bustling-
The crowded buyers of the noisy mart-
The lookers-on-the showy garments rustling-
The money-changers-and the men of art?