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To hunt the fleeting joys of earth,
To follow pleasure's syren breath,
To pant for things so little worth,
Such life is but protracted death.

But when the soul, through him who died,
Seeks joys which this world cannot give,
Counting all things but dross beside,
Then, and then only, does it live.

What tho' the sensual crowd contemn
Paths which their feet have never trod,
God's wisdom hath no charms for them,
And theirs is foolishness with God.

What though their vain and wanton breath
Defy the pangs of mortal care;
Lo! in their train stalk hell and death,
Terror, and darkness, and despair.

The soul (though impious scorners laugh)
That to the blood-stain'd cross hath fled,
That soul th' immortal stream shall quaff,
That soul shall feast on living bread.

To know the God who gave his Son
To save a guilty stubborn race,
To know the Son who left his throne
And everlasting dwelling-place,

Who paid the debt, who bore the curse,
And rose a conqueror from the strife;
To know him as thy friend and God,
This knowledge is—eternal life.

J. B.

should know the secret. Seven years glided away, and a day or two since, when conscious that he must soon leave his wife for erer, be called her to his bed-side, and with his dying accents told her that the hour bad at last come when she should see the words upon the ring she had given him. The young mother took it from his cold finger, and, though heart-stricken with grief, eagerly read the words—“I HAVE LOVED THEE ON EARTH-I WILL MEET THEE IN HEAVEN."

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To hunt the fleeting joys of earth,
To follow pleasure's syren breath,
To pant for things so little worth,
Such life is but protracted death.

But when the soul, through him who died,
Seeks joys which this world cannot give,
Counting all things but dross beside,
Then, and then only, does it live.

What tho' the sensual crowd contemn
Paths which their feet have never trod,
God's wisdom hath no charms for them,
And theirs is foolishness with God.

What though their vain and wanton breath
Defy the pangs of mortal care;
Lo! in their train stalk hell and death,
Terror, and darkness, and despair.

The soul (though impious scorners laugh)
That to the blood-stain'd cross hath fled,
That soul th' immortal stream shall quaff,
That soul shall feast on living bread.

To know the God who gave his Son
To save a guilty stubborn race,
To know the Son who left his throne
And everlasting dwelling-place,

Who paid the debt, who bore the curse,
And rose a conqueror from the strife ;
To know him as thy friend and God,
This knowledge is—eternal life.

J. B.

SAVIOUR AND LORD OF ALL.
THE WORDS BY T. R. TAYLOR.

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rer! How long

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REVIEWS. Memoirs of the Life of the Rev. John Williams. By Ebenezer Prout. London, J. Snow.

pp. 618. We are not surprised that the estimable author of this work should have undertaken the engagement with much reluctance, and with deep anxiety. The long delay which has necessarily attended its publication could not fail to increase these feelings. The visit of Mr. Williams to this country may be properly regarded as an epoch in the history of christian missions. His earnest and powerful appeals, his simple and eloquent descriptions of the mighty works which he had accomplished in the South Seas, produced an impression on the minds of christians of all ranks and conditions, such as had never before been witnessed. A degree of esteem and affection towards the main agent whom God had employed in accomplishing these glorious results, together with the thrilling interest excited by the record of his tragical death, could not but create very high expectations in reference to the memoir of the life and labours of such a man. The deep interest created also by the perusal of Williams's Missionary Enterprizes, perhaps, without exception, the most interesting missionary book that ever issued from the press, and the Martyr of Erromanga, a truly eloquent and admirable production, helped to increase the disadvantages under which the biographer of Williams would come before the public.

Mr. Prout, however, is not a man to be overcome with feelings of this order. With a degree of moral courage and proper self-reliance equal to the occasion, and such as nothing but a strong sense of duty can inspire, he has proceeded with his work to its accomplishment, and it is now before the public. That it has already reached the third thousand is a sufficient pledge of its success, as well as a proof that the public appreciate its worth. To be pronounced the worthy biographer of John Williams is indeed a distinguished honour, but this honour we conscientiously believe to be due to Mr. Prout.

We now proceed to lay before our readers a few of the most interesting portions of this memoir. The most pleasing example of the exquisite tenderness of his character is given in a letter to his father and relatives on the death of his beloved mother,

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