Though sorrow should 'whelm them all o'er, And sure his sweet promise is true.

"Yes, true as the snow blows without, And winds whistle keen through the air, His grace can remove every doubt,

Can chase the black gloom of despair ;It often supports my weak mind,

It wipes the salt tear from my eye,— It tells me that Jesus is kind,

And died for such sinners as I.

"I once roll'd in wealth without grace,
But happiness ne'er was my lot,
Till Christ freely pitied my case,
And now I am bless'd in a cot;
Well knowing things earthly are vain,
Their troubles ne'er puzzle my head,
Convinced that to die will be gain,
I look on the grave as my bed.

"I look on the grave as my bed,
Where I'll sleep the swift hours away,
Till, awaked from their slumbers, the dead
Shall arise, never more to decay;
Then I, with my children and wife,
Shall find a bright palace above,
And endlessly clothed with life,

Shall dwell in the Eden of love."

He ceased, and a big tear of joy,

Roll'd glittering down to the ground, Whilst each having dropt their employ, Were buried in silence profound :A sweet solemn pause long ensued, Each countenance beam'd with delight, Till heavenly converse renew'd, Beguil❜d the dull season of night.

We talked of the rough narrow way,
Which leads to the city of rest,
On Pisgah we stood, to survey
The King in his holiness dress'd,
E'en Jesus, that crucified King,

Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,

Clean washing the crimson of sin,

And rinsing it whiter than snow.

But later and later it's wearing,

And supper they cheerfully bring,

The mealy potato and herring,

And water just fresh from the spring; They press, and they smile,-we sit down, First praying the Father of love

Our table with blessings to crown,

And feed us with bread from above.

How happy's the cottager's lot,

Who travels the Zion-ward road,

He's bless'd in his neat little cot,

He's rich in the favour of God: By faith he surmounts every wave That rolls o'er this sea of distress, Triumphant he dives in the grave, To rise in the ocean of bliss.

Now supper is o'er, and we raise
Our prayers to the Father of light,
And joyfully hymning his praise,

He cheerfully bid a good night:

The ground's white, the sky's cloudless blue,
The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright in my view,
As I to my dwelling repair.

All peace, my dear cottage, be thine,

Nor think that I'll treat thee with scorn,

For whoever reads verses of mine,

Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourn :

And had I but musical strains,

Though humble and mean in thy station, Thou shouldst shine while creation remains, The pride of the fair Irish nation.

In friendship, fair Erin, you glow,
Offended you quickly forgive,

Your courage is known to each foe,

Though foes on your bounty might live :

Some faults you however must own,
Dissension's impetuous zeal,
And wild prodigality, grown

Too big for your income and weal.

Ah! Erin, if you would be great,
And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows elate,
Contend for your cottager's prize :
So error and vice shall decay,

And virtue add peace to renown.
And you shall gleam brighter than day,
The gem of the fair British crown.
An Irish Clergyman.

THE views which are generally entertained of heaven, are far more indefinite than they need be. This home of the blest is described in the Bible with the most magnificent imagery nature affords: we hear of the splendour of the golden city, adorned with beauties and glories by the hand of the Almighty,-we are informed of the social enjoyments of that world: the Christian is introduced to the society of angels, converses with them, unites in their enjoyments, becomes a loved member of their happy community,-we are informed of the active delights of heaven: angel bands fly to and fro, the rejoicing messengers of God; they take their rapid flight where all the glories of the universe allure their curiosity, and where no darkness

succeeds the splendour of ceaseless day,-the joys of sense are described: the eye gazes full and undazzled upon the brightness of God's throne, the ear is charmed with melody, the body of the Christian is to arise from the grave, incorruptible and immortal,-there is the union of the soul and body in that happy world,there we meet our Christian friends, recognize them, rejoice in their love. Thus we pass our eternity with songs, and everlasting joy upon their heads, where sorrow and sighing for ever flee away.

O God, who art so great, and at the same time so familiar, so raised above the heavens, yet so condescending to the lowest state of thy creatures, so immense, and yet so intimately inclosed in the recesses of my heart, so terrible, and yet so amiable,—so jealous, and yet so easy of access to those who freely approach thee with pure love,-when shall thy children cease to be ignorant of thee; who can give me a voice strong enough to reproach the whole world with its blindness, and to tell it with authority all that thou art? When men are desired to search for thee in their own hearts, it is as if they were directed to go to a distant and unknown land in quest of thee: for what is there more unknown to the generality of men, of vain and dissipated men, than the bottom of their own hearts? Do they know what it is ever to look into themselves? Have they ever sought the road? Can they ever imagine what is that interior sanctuary, that impenetrable centre of the soul, where thou wouldst be