The eminent author of the following poem is a minister of He was born at the Congregational Church of Scotland. Leith, Aug. 24, 1808, and is now pastor of the Augustine Church, Edinburgh, and Professor of Divinity. He edited the third edition of Kitto's "Cyclopædia of Biblical Literature."

No more, no more of the cares of time!
Speak to me now of that happy clime
Where the ear never lists to the sufferer's
moan,

And sorrow and care are all unknown:
Now, when my pulse beats faint and slow,
And my moments are numbered here below,
With thy soft, sweet voice, my sister, tell
Of that land where my spirit longs to dwell.

Oh yes, let me hear of its blissful bowers, And its trees of life, and its fadeless flowers; Of its crystal streets and its radiant throng, With their harps of gold and their endless song;

Of its glorious palms and its raiment white,

And its streamlets all lucid with living light; And its emerald plains, where the ransomed stray,

Mid the bloom and the bliss of a changeless day.

--

And tell me of those who are resting there,
Far from sorrow, and free from care,
The loved of my soul, who passed away
In the roseate bloom of their early day;
Oh, are they not bending around me now,
Light in each eye, and joy on each brow,
Waiting until my spirit fly,

To herald me home to my rest on high?

Thus, thus, sweet sister, let me hear
Thy loved voice fall on my listening ear,
Like the murmur of streams in that happy
grove

That circles the home of our early love;
And so let my spirit calmly rise

From the loved upon earth to the blest in the skies,

And lose the sweet tones I have loved so long, In the glorious burst of the heavenly song.

WILLIAM LINDSAY ALEXANDER, D. D.

ASPIRATIONS.

ADAM GOTTLOB OehlenschlaegER, the greatest of Danish poets, was born at Copenhagen, Nov. 14, 1779, and died at the same place, Jan. 20, 1850. His first collected poeins were published in 1803 and 1805, though he had written verse at the age of ten. Influenced by Henrich Steffens, he studied the philosophy of Schelling, and in 1805, on a visit to Germany, became acquainted with Fichte, Schleiermacher, Wieland, Jean Paul, and Goethe, by whom he was cordially received. In 180g he became Professor of Esthetics in the University of Copenhagen, and the remainder of his life was that of a quiet scholar. His great and almost universal genius was expressed in a style of considerable adornment. His death caused public mourning.

Он, teach me, thou forest, to testify glad,

As in autumn the gloom of thy yellowing leaf,

That my spring cometh back after winter the sad,

That my tree gleameth green after mournfulness brief.

The roots of my tree stand strong, deep, and divine

In eternity's summer; oh, why then repine?

Bird of passage, thou frail little thing, oh, teach

me

To fly with bold wing and with spirit as bold, To lands undiscovered far over the sea.

When all here is stormy and cloudy and cold, Throws wide open its gates, a sweet paradise there;

Let me haste to its sunshine, its odorous air.

Oh, teach me, oh, teach me, thou butterfly bright,

To shatter the chrysalis dungeon and chain, Which rob me of freedom, of joy, and of light:

I grovel, a worm, in this desert of pain: But soon, ah! sublimely transfigured, I fly, With wings valiant, of purple and gold, in the sky.

From thy throne in the clouds, thou, Lord, smilest to me.

My Christ, my loved Jesus, thou mighty to

save,

Oh, help me to conquer all sorrow, like thee. Hope's green banner, Redeemer, victorious

wave;

How bitter thy cross amid Calvary's gloom! Thy triumph how wondrous, how grand, o'er the tomb!

Translated from the Danish of OEHLENSCHLAEGER.
By GILBERT TAIT, 1868.

NATURE'S PRAISE.

ANNA FINCH, daughter of Sir William Kingsmill, of Southampton, England, and wife of Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea, is the poet whose "delightful pictures" of external nature Wordsworth singled out as the only ones, except a passage or two in Pope's Windsor Forest," worthy of note between "Paradise Lost" and "The Seasons." Her poems were first published in 1731, the best known of them being entitled "The Atheist and the Acorn." Lady Winchelsea died in 1720.

To the Almighty, on his radiant throne,

Let endless hallelujahs rise! Praise Him, ye wondrous heights to us unknown,

Praise Him, ye heavens unreached by mortal eyes,

Praise Him, in your degree, ye sublunary skies!

Praise Him, ye angels that before him bow,

Yon creatures of celestial frame, Our guests of old, our wakeful guardians now; Praise Him, and with like zeal our hearts inflame, Transporting then our praise to seats from whence you came!

Praise Him, thou sun in thy meridian force!
Exalt Him, all ye stars and light!
Praise Him, thou moon in thy revolving course;

Praise Him, thou gentler guide of silent night, Which dost to solemn praise and serious

thoughts invite!

Praise Him, ye humid vapors, which remain Unfrozen by the sharper air ;

Praise Him, as you return in showers again, To bless the earth and make her pastures fair! Praise Him, ye climbing fires, the emblems of our prayer!

Praise Him, ye waters petrified above,

Ye shredded clouds that fall in snow, Praise Him, for that you so divided move; Ye hailstones, that you do not larger grow, Nor, in one solid mass, oppress the world below! Praise Him, ye soaring fowls, still as you fly,

And on gay plumes your bodies raise! You insects, which in dark recesses lie, Although the extremest distances you try, Be reconciled in this, to offer mutual praise!

Praise Him, thou earth, with thy unbounded

JOHN AUSTIN was born of good family at Walpole, Norfolk, England, and was educated at Cambridge. He became a Catholic, and died, in 1669, a triumphant death. He condemned persecution for religion in a pamphlet entitled "The Christian Moderator."

HARK, my soul, how everything
Strives to serve our bounteous King;
Each a double tribute pays,
Sings its part, and then obeys.

Nature's chief and sweetest choir
Him with cheerful notes admire;
Chanting every day their lauds,
While the grove their song applauds.

Though their voices lower be,
Streams have too their melody;
Night and day they warbling run,
Never pause, but still sing on.

All the flowers that gild the spring
Hither their still music bring;

If Heaven bless them, thankful, they
Smell more sweet and look more gay.

Only we can scarce afford
This short office to our Lord;
We, on whom his bounty flows,
All things gives, and nothing owes.