Page images

like the prophet's servant, he beholds himself, in his high warfare against sin and Satan, encompassed with a glorious array of more than mortal strength, the armies of the living God, followed, wherever he went, in his heaven-appointed journeys, by hosts of angels, rejoicing over the sinners that repented at his preaching. And this flings an air of unspeakable grandeur around him : he stands forth so clearly accredited as the ambassador of Jehovah, commissioned with a message of mercy to a lost world; there is stamped on his character such a visible impress of the divine image; there breathes in his language such inspiration from on high—the voice of the Spirit of God; so much of the simple majesty of truth; the sublime rapture of devotion; and when, in his addresses to his beloved converts, the inmost recesses of his soul are thrown open to our view, we behold a peace so profound--a hope so triumphant ---a joy so unspeakable and full of glory-an eye so fixed on God--a heart so resting in heavena spirit so wrapt in eternity; that while we gaze in ardent admiration of his heavenly character, encircled with such a bright halo of celestial splendour, we are too apt to forget, that, instead of merely looking on it for a moment, as a lovely picture, giving it the heartless tribute of our praise, and then hurrying past to lose all recollection of its divine features amid the business and amusements of an ensnaring and polluting world, we are bound by the most solemn obligations, and invited by the most persuasive motives, to study it attentively, and copy it faithfully--to be followers of him, as he also was of Christ.



Ah! who are the blessed ? of whom we can say

That their pleasures are pleasures indeed; Ah! where are the honours that never decay,

And the joys that shall never recede? The world and its fashions are hastening away,

Its children pass on to the tomb; Its honours, though brightly they shine for a day,

Shall quickly be lost in a gloom. Truly blessed are they who have learned to know

The sound of the message divine;
Through the chill vale of Achor, they feel as they go

The radiance of Deity shine.
Their bodies shall slumber in Jesus awhile,

'Till the trumpet resounds through the sky: Then bursting the fetters of death, with a smile,

They shall enter the mansions on high.
The change how transporting, no language can

When nothing remains to deplore;


When bodies that once were polluted and frail

Are frail and polluted no more.


E. K.

I saw her in her early youth,

A thing all life and glee,
With her glad dark eyes, and her radiant brow,

And her voice of melody.
Hers was a warm and childlike heart,

With such a mind as threw
A glow of sunshine where it dwelt,

And hope for ever new.
And deep within her soul there lay

A fount of feeling strong;
And hers, with all its joy and pain,

Was the charmed gift of song.
I thought e'en such a one might be

The wife that Ascham drew,
The friend, the fairy, or the page,

The beautiful and true.

We met once morema few short years

Of grief had o'er her flown;
And, 'mid the careless and the gay,

Her spirit dwelt alone.

On the same loving eyes I looked,

But their beam was overcast;
And the smile that lit her tranquil face,

Was for thought of bright days past.
Yet seemed she lovely as the star

the brow of even,
The first 'mid lengthening shades to tell

Of light and peace in heaven.



“This place is a hollow, environed with mountains, situated near La Vacchera. It was here that the Vau. dois retreated during the fiercest heat of persecution, and here their Barbes (or Pastors) maintained the college in the cavern, where they prepared those destined for the ministry. The surrounding rocks bear the resemblance of a strong line of fortifications.”—Gilly's Waldensian Researches.

For thee, Maria, I have traced

The outlines of an Alpine vale, Whose story ne'er will be effaced

From hearts that once have heard the tale. 'Twas the last stronghold of the brave and free, The rallying point of their chivalry; Where the Barbes of old made their college hall, 'Mid the rock and the foaming waterfall; And watched, with faith that might not falter,

Truth's holy light,

Through the dreary night,
As it burned on their mountain altar.

There rose the Christian's triumph song,
And swelled those castle-crags along;
While the purple of Rome was deeply dyed
In the blood of the martyrs by their side;
And woman's wail was mingled there,
With the battle-shout, and the breath of prayer;
And the Book of Life its treasures shed,
Among the dying and the dead.
The men of the valleys fought nobly on;
And the meed, by their deeds of valour won,
Was a home—where the eagle builds her nest;
A shrine-where the sunbeams never rest;
A hope-that the patriot's crown might be
The crown of immortality.
Their name has come down with its glorious light,
Embalmed in His love who

gave To their heart His warmth, to their arm His might,

And victory o'er the grave:


Torquay, Devon, 1836.

E. K.

O, WOULD ye were gazing with me this night,

On the scene before me spread

« PreviousContinue »