'Tis theirs to free-exalt--and not debase-
The painted brothers of our common race!
Nor stripe-nor tribute-nor oppressive sway
Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way!
Their watchword still-Let war and sorrow cease!
Their noblest epithet-The men of peace!

Dr. W. Beattie.
He goes to speak the words of life

To souls by error tossed;
And bear the Gospel's joyful sound

To lands in darkness lost-
To speak his Master's glorious works,

His grace and power proclaim,
And teach untutored savages

To breathe Messiah's name.
And 0, the rich reward that waits

A work of grace like this!
A life of love, a death of peace,

A Heaven of endless bliss!
Earth's proudest, noblest honours, fall

Far, far below the prize
He gains, who claims this work his own
His glory never dies! S. D. Patterson.

O, bless the pious zeal
And crown with glad success the labouring sons
Of that best charity, whose annual mite
Sends forth Thy gospel to the distant isles !
So shall the nations, rescued myriads, hear,
And own Thy mercy over all Thy works!
So, from each corner of the enlightened earth,
Incessant peals of universal joy
Shall hail Thee, heavenly Father, God of all!

Madan. Where is your heathen brother?--From his grave

Near thy own gates, or 'neath a foreign sky, From the thronged depths of ocean's mourning wave,

His answering blood reproachfully doth cry, Blood of the soul!--Can all earth's fountains make Thy dark stain disappear?-Stewards of God, awake!

Mrs. Sigourney.

MOMENT_MINUTE. In a moment shall they die, and the people shall be troubled at midnight, and pass away.-Job, xxxiv. 20.

Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast.--Isaiah, xxvi. 20.

MINUTES are number'd by the fall of sands,
As by an hour-glass; the span of time
Doth waste us to our graves, and we look on it.
An age of pleasures, reveli'd out, comes home
At last, and ends in sorrow; but the life,
Weary of riot, numbers every sand,
Waiting in sighs, until the last drop down;
So to conclude calamity in rest.


Catch, then, O catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies;
Life's a short summer,-man a flower;
He dies-alas! how soon he dies!

Dr. Johnson.
Hark! What petty pulses, beating,

Spring new moments into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,

Sends its moment back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncall’d, or flits in vain.
In the highest realms of glory

Spirits trace, before the throne,
On eternal scrolls, the story

Of each little moment flown;
Every deed, and word, and thought,
Through the whole creation wrought.
Were the volume of a minute

Thus to mortal sight unrollid,
More of sin and sorrow in it,

More of man, might we behold,
Than on history's broadest page
In the reliques of an age.

James Montgomery.

MORNING My voice shalt thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I direct my prayer unto Thee, and will look up.-Psalm v. 3.

My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.--Psalm cxxx. 6.

Behold the day, behold, it is come: the morning is gone forth.Ezekiel, vii. 10.

Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night.-Amos, v. 8.

WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave

To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty; true hearts spread and heave

Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun:
Give Him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should

Dawn with the day, there are set awful hours 'Twixt Heaven and us; the manna was not good

After sun-rising, for day sullies flowers. Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And Heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush

And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush

And oak doth know I Av-canst thou not sing? O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Mornings are mysteries: the first world's youth,

Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,

Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food: Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move-They make us holy, happy, rich.

Henry Vaughan.
Again the Lord of life and light

Awakes the kindling ray,
Unseals the eyelids of the morn,

And pours increasing day.

O, what a night was that which wrapp'd

The heathen world in gloom!
O, what a sun which broke this day

Triumphant from the tomb!
This day be grateful homage paid,

And loud Hosannahs sung;
Let gladness dwell on every heart,

And praise on every tongue.
Then thousand different lips shall join

To hail this happy morn;
Which scatters blessings from its wings
On nations yet unborn.


Through the vales the breezes sigh;
Twilight opes her bashful eye,
Peeping from the east, she brings
Dew-drops on her dusky wings:
And the lark, with wak’ning lay,
Upsprings, the harbinger of day.
Now behold! the blushing sky
Tells the bridegroom sun is nigh;
Nature tunes her joyful lyre,
And the trembling stars retire.
Him the east, in crimson drest,
Ushers, nature's welcome guest,
And the mountains of the west
Seem to lift their azure heads,
Jealous of the smile he sheds.
Glory, beaming from on high,
Charms devotion's lifted eye;
Bliss, to which sluggards ne'er were born,
Waits the attendant of the morn.

Maria Colling.
The morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes;
His light is on all, below and above,
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
O, then, on the breath of this early air,
Send up the incense of grateful prayer!

Henry Ware, Jun.

The God of mercy walks His round

From day to day, from year to year, And warns us each with awful sound,

"No longer stand ye idle here.” Ye, whose young cheeks are rosy bright,

Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear, Waste not of youth the morning light,

Oh fools, why stand ye idle here? And ye, whose scanty locks of grey

Foretel your latest travail near, How fast declines your useless day,

And stand ye yet so idle here? One hour remains, there is but one,

But many a grief and many a tear, Through endless ages, must atone

For moments lost and wasted here. Heber.

Serve God at morn, that solemn hallowed hour, When Nature wakes, as from the sleep of death, When the glad song from mountain, grove, and bower, Is heard through heaven and on the earth beneath. Serve God! Let Him receive thy morning's early breath.


Morn is the time to think,

While thoughts are fresh and free,
Of life, just balanced on the brink

Of vast eternity!
To ask our souls if they are meet
To stand before the judgment-seat.—Miss Gray.

New, every morning, is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove;
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
New mercies each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
Nen thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.


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