And far reflect the lovely glow

Where ocean's waves incessant toil

See where the scattered tribes return;
Their slavery is burst at length,
And purer flames to Jesus burn,
And Zion girds on her new strength:
New cities bloom along the plain,
New temples to Jehovah rise,
The kindling voice of praise again
Pours its sweet anthems to the skies.

The fruitful fields again are blest,
And yellow harvests smile around;
Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest,
Where peace and innocence are found.
The bloody sacrifice no more

Shall smoke upon the altars high,—
But ardent hearts, from hill to shore,
Send grateful incense to the sky!

The jubilee of man is near,

When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign;
He comes to wipe the mourner's tear,

And cleanse the heart from sin and pain.
Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise
The king that ransomed you from wo:
Nations, the hymn of triumph raise,
And bid the song of rapture flow!

The buried Love.-RUFUS DAWES.

"I have often thought that flowers were the alphabet of angels, whereby they write on hills and fields mysterious truths.”—The Rebels.

SHE sleeps the quiet sleep of death,

The maid who lies below,

And these are angel-missioned flowers,

That o'er the green turf grow.

And they are sent to warn the fair,
How transient is their bloom;

See, how they bend their tender forms,
And weep upon her tomb.

The blush upon her living cheek
Had shamed the morning skies;
And diamond light is not more bright
Than were her youthful eyes.

To see her on a summer's day,
Gave love a lighter wing;

And happy thoughts would crowd the heart,
And gush from many a spring.

I know the language of the flowers,
And love to hear them grieve,—
When crimsoning to the eye of morn,
Or drooping to the eve.

I listened when the star of love

Shone through the blue serene, When twilight held her silent wake, Beneath the crested queen.

They told of her whose spirit come
To breathe upon their leaves;
And can I choose but love the breath
That once was Genevieve's?

She's gone where sorrows may not come,
Where pain may never be;

But she, who lives an angel still,

May sometimes think of me.

Though gone, alas! her blushing smile,
Who sleeps in sweet repose,

I joy to find its mimic grace
Still living in the rose.

Then when I love the modest flower,

And cherish it with tears,

It minds me of my fleeting time,
Yet chases all my fears.

And when my hour of rest shall be,
I will not weep my doom;

So angel-missioned flowers may come
And gather round my tomb!

The Missionary.-W. B. TAPPAN.

ONWARD, ye men of prayer!

Scatter, in rich exuberance, the seed,

Whose fruit is living bread, and all your need
Will God supply; his harvest ye shall share.

To him, child of the bow,

The wanderer of his native Oregon,

Tell of that Jesus, who, in dying, won

The peace-branch of the skies-salvation for His foe!

Unfurl the banneret

On other shores,-Messiah's cross bid shine

O'er every lovely hill of Palestine;

Fair stars of glory that shall never set.

Seek ye the far-off isle;

The sullied jewel of the deep,

O'er whose remembered beauty angels weep,
Restore its lustre, and to God give spoil.

Go, break the chain of caste;

Go, quench the funeral pyre, and bid no more
The Indian river roll its waves of gore;
Look up, thou East, thy night is overpast.

To heal the bruised, speed;

Oh, pour on Africa the balm

Of Gilead, and, her agony to calm,

Whisper of fetters broken, and the spirit freed.

And thou, O Church, betake

Thyself to watching, labour-help these men:

God shall thee visit of a surety, when

Thou'rt faithful: Church that Jesus bought, awake, awake!

Missions.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.

LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador!

Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails,

And the mariner wakes no more;
Lift high the lamp that never fails,
To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child!

An outcast though he be,

From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smiled, And the country of the free;

Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,

For what home on earth has he?

Light for the hills of Greece!
Light for that trampled clime

Where the rage of the spoiler refused to cease
Ere it wrecked the boast of time;

If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol-train,

The flame of the suttee is dire and red,
And the fakir faints with pain,

And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges laved in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy
Armor when Death invades;

Hark! Hark! 'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh
From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales!

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,

And her kidnapped babes the mother wails

'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exiled from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roam from place to place,
Benighted and oppressed;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base;

Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darkened earth!

Ye blessed, its beams who shed,

Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,

Till, wherever the footstep of man doth ead
Salvation's banner, spread broadly forth,

Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,
And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,

For the aged to rest his weary head.

The Fear of Madness.*-LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.

THERE is a something which I dread;
It is a dark, a fearful thing;

It steals along with withering tread,
Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing.

That thought comes o'er me in the hour
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness;
'Tis not the dread of death,-'tis more,-
It is the dread of madness.

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause,
Forgetful of their feverish course;
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows
With all a fiery whirlpool's force,

Be cold, and motionless, and still,
A tenant of its lowly bed;
But let not dark delirium steal-

The Matin Hour of Prayer.-ANONYMOUS.

THIS cool and fragrant hour of prime,
Unvexed by life's intrusive care,

My matin hour of praise shall be,

Sweet, solitary praise, and prayer.

*These lines, expressing her fears of insanity, were written by this in teresting girl while confined to her bed in the last stage of consumption. They were unfinished, and the last she ever composed.-ED.