That book contains the words of prayer,
And tells of Christ for sinners slain :
But he has no interpreter,

To make its mystic pages plain.

But he has heard of holy men

Who yet should come, and pour a ray Upon the soul of the Karen,

And turn his darkness into day.

The tidings spread, "They're come, they're

come!"

"They stand on western shores afar!" With bounding joy he leaves his home, And hastes the word of life to share.

Before him lies the lengthening plain;

Before him rolls the swelling flood; And on him falls the ceaseless rain; And near him tigers thirst for blood.

But tigers' howl affrights him not;
The wilderness, the swelling flood,
And falling storms, are all forgot:
He hastes to seek the unknown God.

And shall he, with no Bible given
To cheer his path, go home again?
Forbid it, love! forbid it, Heaven!

We'll haste to bless the dark Karen.

KO THAH-BYU IN PRAYER.

HENRY.

Ko Thah-Byu, the first Karen convert, was baptized by Mr. Boardman, May 16th, 1828. He afterwards became a godly, zealous, and efficient preacher of the gospel to his countrymen; and so great was his success, that he has been called the "Karen Apostle." One secret of his usefulness, is, doubtless, to be found in the fact recorded by the missionaries, that he frequently retired to the jungles to hold communion with God; and "was in the habit of spending several hours daily in prayer." He rested from his labors September 9th, 1840, and an interesting memoir of him has been prepared by Rev. Francis Mason, of Tavoy.

Twas midnight in the jungle,
And not a leaf was stirred;
No restless stream was babbling,

-

No moonbeams woke the bird,
When the fearful traveller started,
And held his listening breath,
His trembling fingers grasping
His instrument of death.

A sound had broke the stillness,
And filled his soul with dread!
"Twas not the dead leaf rustling
Beneath the foemen's tread;
'Twas not the tiger's velvet step,
When creeping from his lair;
But 'twas a sound more dear to God, -
Ko Thah-Byu in prayer.

Ko Thah-Byu is gone!
His jungle-prayer is done ;
The war of life is ended,

The crown of life is won!
But Karen converts tell,

That prayer with God could gain,
And he has sent the answer,
He did not pray in vain.

I wonder not the eye of man
Cowers lions to their den;
Or that a child of genius

Can sway the minds of men:
I wonder not the conqueror
Moves nations with his rod;
But rather that a pagan child
Can move the arm of God!

He sleeps not where the Ganges rolls,

Or sainted beech-reed nods;

Beside his grave no lotus leaf

Bore up the god of gods.

He sleeps on Pegu's mountain,

And nought disturbs him there : With Karen hearts for monuments' His epitaph his prayer!

His simple grave has eloquence,
Which living tongues have not;
For know, the love of Jesus
Has sanctified the spot.

Go thither, proud idolater,

And kneeling on that sod,

Own that a prayer-a heartfelt prayer-
Alone avails with God.

THE DYING KAREN AND HIS TRACT.

In Dr. Judson's journal of January 12th, 1832, he mentions the case of a Karen and his wife, near the head of the Patah river, who, though they had never been baptized, and had never seen the face of a foreign missionary, both died in the faith of the gospel; the man enjoining it upon his friends to have the Burman tract, from which he had learned the way of salvation by Jesus Christ, laid on his breast, and buried with him. This tract was entitled the "View of the Christian Religion." The following lines were suggested by this interesting incident.

"He never saw

The book of Heavenly wisdom, and no saint
Had told him how the sinner might be saved.

But to his hut

A little Tract, a messenger of love,

A herald of glad tidings, found its way:

Borne over rapid streams, and deep blue lakes

Embower'd in trees, and o'er the waving woods,
Perchance upon the pinions of the breeze,
At length it came. It was not like the bunch
Of brittle palms on which he learn'd to read;
Its letters were more nice, its texture fair,

Its words he wonder'd as he look'd on them.

There was some holy love he never knew;
There was a spirit breathing in each line;

He felt unutterable thoughts, as now

He scann'd the whole, now read each wondrous word.

It told of God the Maker, and of Him

Who died for man's salvation.

He wept, and pray'd, and mourn'd a wretched life Of constant sin; and gave himself to God.

The hue

Of death was on his cheek.
Told of the pain he felt.

To tell of joys to come.

His burning brow Still no saint was near No man of God

Stood by his bed to soothe the final hour.

But he had peace.

"When I am dead," he saith, "put ye the little book

Upon my breast, and let it go with me

Down to my sepulchre. It taught me all

That I have learn'd of God, and heaven, and hell. I love the man who wrote it, and that God

Who brought it to my home."

ANON.