DEATH OF A CHRISTIAN.

REV. W. H. BATHURST.

How sweet the hour of closing day,
When all is peaceful and serene,
And the broad sun's retiring ray
Sheds a mild lustre o'er the scene!

Such is the Christian's parting hour—
So peacefully he sinks to rest;
And faith, rekindling all its power,
Lights up the languor of his breast.

There is a radiance in his eye,

A smile upon his wasted cheek, That seems to tell of glory nigh,

In language that no tongue can speak.

A beam from Heaven is sent to cheer
The pilgrim on his gloomy road;
And angels are attending near

To bear him to their bright abode!

Who would not wish to die like those

Whom God's own Spirit deigns to blessTo sink into that soft repose,

Then wake to perfect happiness?

O Lord! that we may thus depart,
Thy joys to share, Thy face to see,
Impress thine image on our heart,

And teach us now to walk with Thee!

MISSIONARY HYMN.

ROBERT KAYE GREVILLE.

O GOD! from Thee alone
Our earthly blessings flow;
What is there not thine own
Of all we prize below?
We are but stewards here—

Lord! may we faithful prove, And what we hold most dear Deny not to Thy love!

Awake! then, ye to whom
God has so freely given
To fly the sinner's doom,

And know the path to Heaven!
A sound comes o'er the deep,
A loud and bitter cry;
A thousand Christians sleep-

A thousand heathen die !

To tell what ye have heard? Ye know your Lord's command— Ye have that ye may give With ready heart and hand, That others too may live.

HYMN IN HARVEST TIME.

CHARLES WEST THOMPSON.

'NEATH summer's bright and glorious sky,
While proudly waves the golden grain,
And through the falling fields of rye
Comes on the joyous reaper train-
While Nature smiles, and hill and plain
Are tranquil as the sleeping sea,
And peace and plenty brightly reign

By homestead, hearth, and forest tree-
God of the seasons! unto Thee we raise
Our hands and hearts in melody and praise!

There is a sweet breath from the hills,
The incense from the mountain air,
Which from a thousand flowers distils
Its odours delicate and rare:

We feel its balm-we see it there

Among the bending wheat-blades move, Kissing their tops in dalliance fair,

As if its very life were love!

God of the harvest! whence its breezes blow, Receive the humble thanks thy creatures owe!