Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of

fame;

Not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear;—

They shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty

cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam; [home.
And the rocking pines of the forest roared :-such was their welcome
There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band :
Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-No; 'twas a faith's pure shrine.
Yes; call that holy ground which first their brave feet trod. [God.
They have left unstained what there they found—FREEDOM TO WORSHIP

THE SANDS OF DEE.-(Canon Kingsley.)

By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co.
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee!

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came up and hid the land,
And never home came she.

O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?
A tress of golden hair,

Of drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea.

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes of Dee!

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.

WE ARE SEVEN.-(Wordsworth.)

I MET a little cottage girl: she was eight years old she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, and wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; and two of us at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and in the churchyard cottage, I dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea; yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?" Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," the little maid replied; "twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, my kerchief there I hem; and there upon the ground I sit—I sit and sing to them. And often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. The first that died was little Jane; in bed she moaning lay, till' God released her of her pain; and then she went away. So in the churchyard she was laid; and when the grass was dry, together round her grave we played, my brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, and I could run and slide, my brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side. "How many are you then,” said I, "if they two are in heaven?" Quick

was the little maid's reply-"O master! we are seven." But they are dead-those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!"-'Twas throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will,— and said, "Nay, we are seven !"

THE MOUNTAIN DAISY.-(Burns.)

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem.

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet !
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce reared above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless-starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er !

Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striven,

By human pride or cunning driven
To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruined, sink !

Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

A PSALM OF LIFE.-(Longfellow.)

TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" for the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest and the grave is not its goal: "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, is our destined end or way; but to act, that each To-morrow find us farther than To-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of Life, be not like dumb, driven cattle! be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present! heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime; and, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time; -footprints that perhaps another, sailing o'er Life's solemn main, a forlorn and shipwrecked brother, seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving, still pursuing-learn to labour and to wait.

MIRIAM'S SONG.—(Moore.)

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free!
Sing!-for the pride of the tyrant is broken:

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave

How vain was their boasting !-The Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea:
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword!
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea :
Jehovah has triumphed-His people are free!

THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.-(Farmer.)
THE Cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean;
Yet everything within that cot was wondrous neat and clean :
The night was dark and stormy, -the wind was blowing wild
A patient mother sat beside the deathbed of her child,-
A little, worn-out creature-his once bright eyes grown dim:
It was a Collier's only child-they called him
Little Jim".

And oh ! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek,
As she offered up a prayer in thought!-she was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched Collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that God will spare her boy, and take herself instead :
She gets her answer from the child-soft fall these words from him-
"Mother! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim!

"I have no pain, dear mother, now; but, oh! I am so dry :
Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more; and, mother, do not cry!"
With gentle, trembling haste, she held a tea-cup to his lips-
He smiled to thank her-then he took three little tiny sips.

"Tell father, when he comes from work, I said 'Good night' to him;
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep.". Alas! poor Little Jim!
She saw that he was dying! The child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she'd ever wish to hear.

The cottage door is opened-the Collier's step is heard;
The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word :
He felt that all was over-he knew the child was dead!
He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed :
His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal
And see, the mother joins him! the stricken couple kneel;
With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask of Him,
In Heaven once more that they may meet their own poor "Little Jim”!