There's many a king whose funeral
A black-robed realm shall see,
For whom no tear of grief is shed
Like that which falls for thee.

Yes, rest thee, forest maiden,
Beneath thy native tree!

The proud may boast their little day,
Then sink to dust like thee;

But there's many a one whose funeral
With nodding plumes may be,
Whom nature nor affection mourns,
As now they mourn for thee!

HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN.

6. P. R. James.

SLOW, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Thy course of beneficence done;

As glorious go down to the ocean's warm breast As when thy bright race was begun.

For all thou hast done,

Since thy rising, oh! Sun,

May thou and thy Maker be blest.

Thou hast scattered the night from thy broad golden

way,

[day,

Thou hast given us thy light through a long happy Thou hast roused up the birds, thou hast waken'd the flowers,

To chant on thy path, and to perfume the hours. Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest.

Slow, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Yet pause but a moment to shed

One warm look of love on the earth's dewy breast, Ere the starr'd curtain fall round thy bed,

And to promise the time,

When, awaking sublime,

Thou shalt rush all refresh'd from thy rest, Warm hopes drop like dews from thy life-giving

hand,

[expand;

Teaching hearts closed in darkness like flowers to Dreams wake into joys when first touch'd by thy

light,

As glow the dim waves of the sea at thy sight. Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest.

Slow, slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, Prolonging the sweet evening hour;

Then robe again soon in the morn's golden vest, go forth in thy beauty and power.

To

Yet pause on thy way,

To the full height of day,

For thy rising and setting are blest.

When thou com'st after darkness, to gladden our

eyes,

Or departest in glory, in glory to rise,

May hopeand may prayer still be woke by thy rays, And thy going be mark'd with thanksgiving and praise.

Then slow, mighty Wanderer, sink to thy rest, And rise again beautiful, blessing, and blest.

THE PILGRIM'S SONG.

H. F. Lyte.

My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here;
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! the worst that can come
But shortens thy journey, and hastens thee home.

It is not for me to be seeking my bliss

And building my hopes in a region like this;
I look for a city which hands have not piled-
I pant for a country by sin undefiled.

The thorn and the thistle around me may grow—
I would not lie down upon roses below:
I ask not my portion, I seek not a rest,
Till I find them for ever in Jesus's breast.

Afflictions may damp, they cannot destroy;
One glimpse of his love turns them all into joy;
And the bitterest tears, if he smile but on them,
Like dew in the sunshine, grow diamond and gem.

Let doubt, then, and danger, my progress oppose;

They only make heaven more sweet at the close; Come joy, or come sorrow-whate'er may befal, An hour with my God will make up for it all.

A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand,
I march on in haste through an enemy's land;
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long,
And I'll smooth it with hope, and cheer it with

song.

SABBATH EVENING.

Edmeston.

ANOTHER day has pass'd along,
And we are nearer to the tomb;
Nearer to join the heavenly song,
Or hear the last eternal doom.

These moments of departing day,

When thought is calm, and labours cease,

Are surely solemn times to pray,

To ask for pardon and for peace.

Thou God of mercy, swift to hear,

More swift than man to tell his need;

Be THOU to us this evening near,

And to thy fount our spirits lead.

Teach us to pray—and, having taught, Grant us the blessings that we crave; Without thy teaching-prayer is nought, But with it-powerful to save!