Thou knewest the tossing ocean-world
But little heeds his lot,

Who to its storms has sail unfurled

And recks the danger not.

Thou knewest that many a noble heart,
As proudly glad as he,

The light of home, has folly quenched
In that tumultuous sea.

Ah! little didst thou deem of feet

That ever lurk within

The Muse's most secure retreat,
To draw her sons to sin ;-
Or of the outward twining flower,
Or pearl within the cup,

That woos them at the unguarded hour
To drink the poison up.

To prayer! to prayer! a teeming cloud Is on the land this hour;

"Twill rise to heaven, and deep, not loud,
Will be the plenteous shower.
Wilt thou not haste with eager joy,

And in its blessings share?
Wilt thou not for thy perilled boy
Entreat?-To prayer! to prayer!

Go! for on moments of rich grace,
The world's high issues rest;·
Not only he may find the place
Of mercy and be blest,

But thousands, through the mighty word Thy herald-son will bear,

Shall live for aye!-Art thou not stirred? To prayer! this hour to prayer!

THE PALM TREE.

BEAUTIFUL tree of the towering stem!
Wearing thy flowers like a diadem -
Whose leafy garlands, always green,
Always fair and flowing are seen;
Whose scarlet fruit, like coral bright,
To the longing traveller yields delight;
Noblest thou of the forest throng!
To thee I give a simple song.
I never saw thee, princely plant,
In Syria's vales, nor in thy haunt—
"The city of palm trees," Jericho,
Nor where the Jordan's currents flow,
Nor where the mighty Lebanon sees,
In pride, his aged cedar trees.

Nor where is found the clustering vine,
Or tempting olive of Palestine.
Nor in the distant desert, where
Palmyra's solemn ruins are ;-
Yet I have loved thee, since a boy,
It was at home my glad employ
To read, beneath my father's eye,
In Holy Writ; - and gladly I

Did in the blessed Sabbath's calm,
Read and talk of the stately palm;

That the good shall be like the flourishing tree,
Planted by the gushing river;

Which yields in his season his fruit, and he,
The evergreen, shall never wither.

The pilgrim eagerly looks for Thee,
When faint and almost spent with thirst;
He knows where thou art, guiding tree!
The cool deep waters freshly burst.
O thus may I to my Saviour seek,
When in this desert faint and weak,
Assured that He my steps will show
Where springs of life eternally flow.

SLEEP.

Sleep is awful. - Byron.

To him at strife with conscience, sleep

Must be a thing of dread;

What images of horror leap
Like fiends about his bed!
He tosses on the eider down,~
The finely textured sheet

That wraps his body, fails to give
The rest to nature sweet.

Yet is sleep" awful?"— Ask the hind
That plods among the corn,

How seemeth slumber unto him,
Who toils from rosy morn

Till welcome evening browns the hills;

He laughs at such a word;
What is there awful to his breast
By no ill musings stirred?

In visions of the night, when earth,

So late in arms, is dumb,

And all is hushed, save troubled thoughts

That like dark phantoms come,·

How sadly rise, in long array,

The deeds men deemed were fled!

How busy cruel memory then,

With things long fancied dead!

Then sleep is awful-wonder not
That he who sin did choose,
Still found all things designed for good,

To yield him good refuse.

Or that in his soul's agony,

With every mercy given

He battled, who in madness waged
Impotent war with Heaven.*

To such, each gift of love, of life,
Each than the other worse-

Can only be, in its abuse,

A constant, bitter curse.

* Vide Lord Byron's verses on completing his thirty-sixth year : The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle, &c.

For what to virtue blessings are,

Most sweet, and safe and kind, -
Are evils, terrible to him

Of sin-distempered mind.

IDOLS.

On receiving from Rev. A. Judson, missionary in Burmah, a Boodh, which was taken by him from a deserted temple on the banks of the Selwin.

THE idols of the orient bow

Abashed, to a superior power;

And weeds offend the pilgrim now,

Where flaunted priest, and glittered tower.

They come! they come! from silent shrines
Of Gunga, and the blue Selwin;
Though dumb-to us convincing signs
Of rising truth and falling sin.

They come ! those conquered gods! to stir
Our lagging faith, and show that He

Whose is the church, will give to her

The world beyond the Indian sea.

And BooDH!-that from the sculptor's hand
Dropt, fresh in marble, years ago,

Sent me by one of that true band,

Whose future crowns are starred below