Or if 'tis e'er denied thee

In solitude to pray,
Should holy thoughts come o'er thee

When friends are round thy way ;

E'en then the silent breathing

Of thy spirit rais'd above, Will reach. His throne of glory,

Who is Mercy, Truth, and Love.

THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL.

MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high

Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky,

Refulgent with celestial dew.
O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow,

And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile,
And far reflect the lovely glow

Where ocean's waves incessant toil.

See where the scattered tribes return;

Their slavery is burst at length, And

purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strength: New cities bloom along the plain,

New temples to Jehovah rise, The kindling voice of praise again,

Pours its sweet anthems to the skies.

The fruitful fields again are blest,

And yellow harvests smile around; Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest,

Where peace and innocence are found.

The bloody sacrifice no more

Shall smoke upon the altars high, But ardent hearts from hill to shore,

Send grateful incense to the sky!

The jubilee of man is near,

When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign ; He comes to wipe the mourner's tear,

And cleanse the heart from sin and pain. Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise

The king that ransomed you Nations, the hymn of triumph raise,

And bid the song of rapture flow!

from woe;

FUTURE HOPES.

THERE is an untold something, dwelling

In every feeling breast,
Which seems to whisper, softly telling

That this is not our rest.

It bids us seek some other region,

Some better land afar ;
Where, guarded by a heavenly legion,

The happy spirits are.

So that, when friend from friend must sever,

Some cheering voice may tell,
They part, but do not part for ever,”—
Oh, sweet is such farewell !

G. BEDDOW. SCOTLAND.

O CALEDONIA ! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires, what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand.

SCOTT.

O SCOTLAND! much I love thy tranquil dales ;
But most on sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering and stopping oft to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs ;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plot or little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer ;
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him : sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between yonth and

age
To him a painful thought; he joy'd to think
His journey near a close-Heaven is his home.

GRAHAME.

a

TO IRELAND.

Written on occasion of the Gospel being first preached

in a Chapel in the native Irish tongue.

ERIN Mavourneen! oh, when wilt thou rise

From the torpor of death that has bound thee? The veil of delusion is cast o'er thine eyes,

Thy children are weeping around thee ! Harp of sweet Inisfail! mute are thy chords,

Silent thy deep-flowing numbers, Strangers unholy have long been thy lords,

And weeds have crept over thy slumbers.

Erin Mavourneen ! the Day-Star shall shine,

To soften thy night into morning;
Again shalt thou sparkle in radiance divine,

The lands with thy beauty adorning.
Harp of sweet Inisfail ! mayst thou awake,

By the stream of a life-giving fountain ; Again may thy rich stream of melody break,

To gladden each valley and mountain.

Erin Mavourneen! the bosoms that mourn,

Again may in rapture behold thee;
The Lord, who averted his face will return,

And the blaze of his presence enfold thee.
Glory of Inisfail ! spirit of song,

To thee let the triumph be given,
To roll the full tones of thy harping along,
And swell the devotions of Heaven.

CHARLOTTE EILZABETH.

FIELD FLOWERS.

YE Field Flowers ! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildings of nature, I doat upon you ;
For
ye

waft me to summers of old, When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,

And of broken glades breathing their balm ; While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note

Made music, that sweetened the calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June ;
Of ruinous castles

ye

tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And

your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now, what affections the violet awakes ;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore :
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks

In the vetches that tangled their shore !