And yet deny to man's estate
The boon of happiness.

Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,-
Ye blessed birds around,

In which of nature's wide domains
Can bliss for man be found!

The birds wild caroll'd o'er my head,
The breeze around me blew,
And nature's awful chorus said-
No bliss for man she knew.

I question'd Love, whose early ray
So rosy bright appears,

And heard the timid genius say
His light was dimm'd by tears.

I question'd Friendship, but she sigh'd,
And thus her answer gave—
The few whom fortune never turn'd
Were mould'ring in the grave.

I ask'd if Vice could bliss bestow?
Vice boasted loud and well;
But, fading from her wither'd brow,
The borrowed roses fell.

I sought of Feeling, if her skill

Could soothe the wounded breast;
And found her mouring, faint, and still,-
For others' woes distress'd.

I question'd Virtue, but she sigh'd,
No boon could she dispense-
Nor Virtne was her name, she cried,
But humble Penitence.

I asked Death-the grisly shade
Relax'd his brow severe ;-
And "I am happiness," he said,
"If Jesus guides thee here."

HYMN.-MAT. vi. 25.

Whence this fruitless mourning?

Christians, why those tears?

'S an diùlt e sonas, seasmhach, buan, Do m' chridhe trom a mhàin ?

Labhradh a' choill-O! 's binn na h-eoin;

Labhradh gach glac a's cluan,
'Bheil àit' air bith san t-saoghal mhòr,
Am faigh mi sonas buan?

Ach sheinn na h-eoin os cionn mo chinn,
A's shéid a' ghaoith gu tlàth;
Buan shonas cha 'n 'eil againn duit,
Chualas gach guth ag ràdh.

'N sin dh' fheòraich mi do Ghaol nam buadh 'N robh sòlas buan fo'n ghréin ?

Cha 'n fhiosrach mi, deir e, fo bhròn, 'S na deòir na shùilibh féin.

Dh' fheòraich mi cheist do Chàirdeas blàth, Fhreagair e mi gu luath ;

Tha dàimh mo ghràidh nach dìobradh mi
'Nan sìneadh anns an uaigh.

Làn shonas thairg dhomh Baobh an uilc,
Na'n tugainn dhise géill;

Dh'at i le h-uaill,—a's chunnaic mi
Gur breug a bha 'na beul.

Ghuidh mi'n sin air Caoimhneas caomh

Mo bheannachadh le sìth ;

Ach fhuair mi ise brònach, fann
Mu dhàimh a bh'ann an dìth.

Gu Deadh-bheus àillidh chaidh miʼn sin,
Chuala mi cnead na com;

'Se 's ainm a nis dhomh, fhreagair i,
Aithreachas tiamhaidh, trom.

Ràinig mi righ nam fiamh, am bàs;
Ach labhair e gu fòill,

"Is sonas mi nach meall gu bràth
Na thig tre Chriosd a'm' chòir.

LAOIDH.-MATA vi. 25.

C'arson tha 'n t-ionracan fo sprochd,
A' triall roi' ghleann nan deur?

Why give way to sadness,
Doubts and anxious fears?
Grieve no more, desponding:
On your God rely-
Mark, He feeds the ravens,
Hears their young ones cry.

He the spotless lilies

Clothes in dazzling white;
Say, what monarch's splendour
Half so pure and bright?
Since the fowls and flowers

Are objects of his care,

Much more, Jesus tells,

Saints his love shall share.

BEGONE UNBELIEF.

Begone unbelief, my Saviour is near
And for my relief will surely appear;

By prayer let me wrestle, and he will perform,
With Christ in the vessel I smile at the storm.
Though dark be my way, since he is my guide,
'Tis mine to obey, 'tis his to provide;

Though cisterns be broken, and creatures all fail,
The words he has spoken shall surely prevail.

His love in times past forbids me to think
He'll leave me at last in trouble to sink;
Each sweet Ebenezer I have in review

Confirms his good pleasure to help me quite through.
Desirous to save, he watch'd o'er my path,
When, Satan's blind slave, I sported with death;
And can he have taught me to trust in his name,
An thus far have brought me to put me to shame?
Why should I complain of want or distress,
Temptation or pain? He told me no less;
The heirs of salvation, I know from his word,
Through much tribulation must follow their Lord.
How bitter that eup, no heart can conceive,
Which he drank all up, that sinners might live!
His way was much rougher and darker than mine;
Did Jesus thus suffer and shall 1 repine?

Since all that I meet shall work for my good,
The bitter is sweet, the med'cine is food;

Though painful at present, 'twill cease before long
And then, O how pleasant the conqueror's song!

An dìobair Dia e 'n àm na h-airc,
Nach dean e taic 'n a fheum?
Feuch eoin nan speur tha 'seinn gu binn,
Cha chuir iad sìol 's cha bhuain;
Gidheadh tha Dia a' freasdal doibh,
Le caoimhneas, càirdeil, buan.

Feuch blàithean maoth nan cluaintean ùr,
Cha saoth'raich iad, 's cha snìomh ;
Gidheadh air Solamh féin cha robh

Deise cho àillidh riamh.

An Dia a dh'éisdeas gairm nan eun,
'S a chòmhdaicheas gach blàth,
Nach solair e do'n Chriosdaidh chaomh
A mhaoin o là gu là.

AN-EARBSA BI 'SIUBHAL.

An earbsa bi siubhal, mo Shlàn'ear tha 'm chuideachd,
"Se toileach, a's murrach air m'fhurtachd a'm fheum;
Sior ghleachdam le h-ùrnuigh, 's ni esan an tùrn domh-
Le Iosa 'g am stiùradh cha chùram leam beud.

Ged is doilleir an ròd domh 'ghnàth géilleam d'a òrdugh
'S ni esan mo sheòladh, 's bheir lòn domh gun dith:
Ged fhàilnich gu buileach gach creutair sa' chruinne,
Gach focal a thuirt thig uile gu crìch.

Tha 'ghràdh 'bha cho caoin domh a' bacadh dhomh shaoilsinn
Gu'm fàg e ri m' shaogh'l mi am aonar gun taic':

Tha h-uil' Ebenéser mar chuimhneachan feumail,

'G ràdh, "Thug 's bheir e Féin as gach éigin thu mach."

Gu m'aiseag gu slàinte chaomh-fhair e mo ghnàth'chadh,
Traill Shatain 'n uair bha mi, ag abhachd ri sgrios:
'S an d'rinn e mo threòrach 'chur ann-san mo dhòchais,

'S am fàg e gu brònach 'an dòruinn mi 'nis?

C'uim' bhithinn fo anntlachd 'thaobh easbhuidh no amhghar
Gach trioblaid a'm' chrannchur roimh laimh nochd e féin:
'S tre dheuchainnibh geirte, mar 's fios domh o 'Fhocal,
Tha oighreachan sonais 'ga lorgach' 's gach ceum.

Cho searbh 'sa bha 'n cup' sin cha bhreithnich aon duine,
'Dh'òl Iosa gu buileach, a' fulang 'n àit' dhaoin'!
B'i 'shligh'-s' bu doimhich', 's bu sheirbhe gun choimeas,
O! anaim faic fhoigh'dinn 's o 'oideas na claon.
On' dh'aomas a fhreasdal gach aon ni gu m' leas domh,
Is milis a mheasam gach leigheas uaith' Féin:
An dràsd ann an àirceas, ach 'n aithghearr' an aiteas,
'S an sin, O cia taitneach buaidh-chaithream a sheinn!

FREEDOM.

[The following thrilling lines on the total abolition of West Indian Slavery were written by Mrs Garret, a lady well known for her liberality and other amiable qualities.]

Oh! heard ye that groan that ascended to heaven?
Oh! saw ye that tear as the torture was given ?
Or mark'd ye the anguish, despairing and wild,
Of the mother who gaz'd on her manacl'd child?
'Twas the last, for the reign of oppression is o'er-
'Twas the last, for her son shall be fetter'd no more!
The Angel of mercy has broken his chain,
And liberty blesses the negro again.

Then sound the loud timbrel o'er India's wide sea,
Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free!
Jehovah has granted the captive release,

And the mandate has issued, "Let slavery cease

"MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM."

'Twas when the sea's tremendous roar
A little bark assail'd,

And pallid fear, with awful power,
O'er all on board prevail'd.

Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who, fearless, viewed the storm,
And playful, with composure, smil'd
At danger's threat'ning form.

"Why sporting thus?" a seaman cried,
"Whilst sorrows overwhelm."
"Why yield to grief?" the boy replied,
"My father's at the helm."

Despairing soul! from hence be taught
How groundless is thy fear;

!

Think on what wonders Christ has wrought,

And he is always near.

Safe in his hands, whom seas obey,

When swelling billows rise;

Who turn the darkest night to day,
And brightens lowering skies.