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and show the distinct marks of its species. Without careful cultivation, it remains a lovely, perhaps even a noxious, weed. The Human Flower closely resembles in many respects its brother of the field. It is either a flower of promise, or degenerates into a weed. Its vices are of spontaneous growth, and indigenous to the human heart --that soil of corruption and impiety: its virtues are exotic, and brought from the blessed climate of Heaven. Many things are required to bring the Human Flower to perfection. Faith must be the earth that sustains it-Hope the vital air it respiresand Charity the sunshine that warms and colours it. The bud will then expand its petals-display its brilliant tints to the view -give out its rich perfume-bear Christian fruits-and prove itself a genuine plant of immortality-a Flower of Paradise!
J. M. S.
BY BABEL'S STREAMS.
BY MRS. MOODIE.
By Babel's streams the captive band
Of Israel sat and wept: Sad exiles in a foreign land,
We mournful vigils kept.
We thought of Zion; and the sound
The mem'ry of our country rose,
"Come sing us one of Zion's songs,
The heart that treasures up its wrongs Is in no mood to sing.
Oh! how can we exalt the voice
In this strange land can we rejoice,
When I forget Thee, O my God!
May I forget my native sod,
ALLAN AND JANE.*
BY J. JACOB.
PEACE! peace! ye angry winds of heaven, still in your caverns lie;
And, O ye clouds of tempest gloom, forbear to shroud the sky;
Undimm'd let Cynthia's dewy light on
Ocean's bosom fall,
And deep imposing silence reign, unbroken,
*Founded on fact.
Save by the plaint of Philomel, that wildly fitful song,
That, like the tide of feeling, flows respon
sive dells along;
The sacred hour of love should be secure from all alarm;
While blending sound and scene bind fast affection's mighty charm.
Down by the foaming ocean's flood, whose waves' resistless might
Must shortly waft the seaman far from his belov'd one's sight,
Brave Allan with his faithful Jane, in silent sorrow stand,
Their language is the falling tear, the pressure of the hand,
And the deep sighing of the breast, in cadence wild and low,
Far mightier eloquence than words, to tell of bosom woe!
Words are but feeble to express the work
ings of the heart,
When those who've long and fondly lov'd,
are met, alas! to part.
Love, hallow'd by the heavenly flame of piety and truth,
Their hearts with gentlest sovereignty have govern'd from their youth;
Joy's infant budding has been nurs'd, till ripen'd into bloom,
It promis'd stores of purest sweets, for many years to come;
But time and distance both conspire, like frost of winter's day,
To chill its genial atmosphere, and wither it away :
Far must they part, and many a day be theirs' of secret pain,
And who can tell if they on earth shall ever meet again?