is of no value, if we do nothing towards being so; we should desire it more than all temporal things that are most dear to us, and most eagerly pursued by us, nor should we do less for God, than we have done for the world. Let us then examine our hearts :-Am I determined to sacrifice to God my strongest friendship, those habits which have taken the deepest root in me, my most predominant inclinations and most favourite amusements? Fenelon.

PRESENT VISION IMPERFECT.

DIM and dark our present vision,

Through time's shadowy glass made known, When compared with views elysian,

Which hereafter shall be shown.

Yet, enough of glory, beauty,

Here to faith's keen sight are given,

To refresh the path of duty,

And make glad the way to heaven.

See we not beyond the portal

Of the grave's brief resting place, Glympses of those joys immortal, Which await the heirs of grace?

Hear we not, at seasons stealing
On the spirit's wakeful ear,
Songs of praise their bliss revealing,

Who once mourned and suffered here?

Feel we not at times in sorrow,

Hopes whereon the heart can stay, Prescient of a brighter morrow, Which shall chase all griefs away?

Oh, if such the hopes attendant,
While we dimly, darkly see,
How unspeakably transcendant
Must the full fruition be!

When eternity unfolding,

All the ransom'd hosts above, Face to face their lord beholding,

Join in songs of praise and love.

B. Barton.

GOD impatiently bears with such slothful servants as say in their hearts, thus far will I go, but no further. Does it belong to the creature, to set bounds to the Creator? What would a master say to his servant, or a king to his subjects, that served him after this manner, who were fearful of being devoted too much to his service or interest, and who would blush to have their attachment appear to the world? What then shall the King of kings say, if we imitate these base servants? The time approaches, it will soon arrive; let us then hasten to prevent it, let us love the everlasting beauty. Fenelon,

THE CABIN OF MOURN.

ONE day when December's keen breath,
Arrested the swift-running rill,

And nature seemed frozen in death,
I silently stroll'd near the hill;
The mustering clouds wore a frown,
The mountains were cover'd with snow,

And winter his mantle of brown,

Had spread o'er the landscape below.

No music was heard in the grove,

The linnet, the blackbird, and thrush, The goldfinch, and sweet-cooing dove, Sat pensively mute in the bush; The leaves that once wore a green shade, Lay gather'd in heaps on the ground, Chill winter, through grove, wood, and glade, Spread sad desolation around.

A light its pale ray faintly shot,

The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn,

It came from a neighbouring cot,

They call it the Cabin of Mourn ;

A neat Irish cabin, snow-proof,

Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,

One chimney in midst of the roof,

One window, and one latched door.

Escaped from the pitiless storm,
I enter'd this humble retreat,

Compact was the building, and warm,

Its furniture simple and neat. And now, gentle reader, approve

The ardour that glow'd in each breast, As kindly our cottagers strove,

To cherish and welcome their guest.

The dame nimbly rose from her wheel,
And brush'd off the powdery snow,—
The daughter, forsaking her reel,

Began briskly the cinders to blow;
The children who sat on the hearth,
Leapt up, without murmur or frown,
An oaken-stool quickly brought forth,
And smilingly bade me sit down.

While grateful sensations of joy,

All o'er my fond bosom were pour'd,
Resumed was each former employ,
And gay thrifty order restored:
The blaze bicker'd up to the crook,
The reel click'd again by the door,

The dame turned her wheel in the nook,
And frisk'd her sweet babes round the floor.

Released from the toils of the barn,

The thrifty blithe wife hail'd their sire, When, hanging his flail by her yarn,

He drew up his stool to the fire;

A A

Then smoothing his brow with his hand,
As though he would wipe away sorrow,
He said, "Let us keep God's command,
And never take thought for the morrow."

Then turning him round, with a smile
Of freedom unblended by art,
With affable manners and style,

Though simple, yet reached to my heart,
He said, whilst with ardour he glow'd,
"Kind sir, we are poor, yet we're bless'd,
We're all in that steep narrow road
That leads to the city of rest.

"'Tis true I must toil all the day,
And oft suffer cold through the night,
Though silver'd all over with grey,
And dimly declining my sight,

And sometimes our raiment and food
Are scanty, ah! scanty indeed,
Yet all work together for good;
So in my bless'd Bible I read.

"I also have seen in that book,

(Perhaps you can tell me the place,) How God on poor sinners does look,

In mercy, and gives them his grace ;Yea, gives them his grace in vast store, Sufficient to help them quite through,