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Who is it? He whose hand hath made

The Heavens, too bright for mortal eye,
And given to Earth the cooling shade,

And flowers of every varied dye !
He made the sun's bright axle glow,
And bade the' obedient waters flow.

Who is it? He who meekly laid

His pomp of heavenly glory by,
And, in the form of man was made

To atone for sins of deepest dye.
His power, his love, are still the same
And Jesus is the stranger's name !



[Suggested by

Almanac in Mr. Hodgshon's collection of curiosities, which was constructed by the converted Africans, to mark the Sabbath]

What means this simple implement ;
Of workmanship so rude
When curious and magnificent,
With eager eyes are viewed;
What claim has this to praise or blame ?
What is its use ? and what its name?

Ages had past, yet o'er that land
No sabbath sun had shone,
Until the missionary band,
There worshipped God alone;
And kept their sabbath as they could,
In desert bare, or sheltering wood-

Ah no! poor Africa! for thee
There was no day of rest !
Whether thy sons were slaves or free,
Were wanderers or opprest-
Their labours never knew a close,
No hallowed day of sweet repose.

Far in the regions of the west
Thy stolen children toil ;
And tears of multitudes distress'd,
Have steeped that fertile soil-
Oh Christians, is it true that they
Are not allowed a Sabbath day?.

And in their own bright sunny climes,
By British foot untrod,
No name, no sign, no word had they,
To mark the day of God-
But day succeeded night, and so
Time pass'd in one unbroken flow.

But hark! the word of God hath been, In those wide deserts spoken

The spell of many thousand years,
At once is spoiled, and broken-
And Africans, for Jesu's sake,
This small memorial learn to make !


the word of God will bring,
A Sabbath where it comes ;
And Christian Caffres now can sing,
Around their happy homes ;
While soft and sweet the sabbath bell,
Sounds thro' the deep sequester'd dell.


The Fall of Jerusalem.

MIRIAM. Alas! we listen to our fond hopes, Even till they seem no more our fancy's children. We put them on a prophet's robes, endow them With prophets' voices, and then Heaven speaks in

them, And that which we would have be, surely shall be.

SALONE. What, mock'st thou still ? still enviously doubtest The mark'd and favour'd of the Everlasting ?


Oh gracious Lord ! thou know'st she has not eaten
For two long days, and now her troubled brain
Is full of strangeness.


Ha! still unbelieving ! Then, 'tis true, what I have doubted long. False traitress to our city, to the race, The chosen race of Abraham ! loose apostate From Israel's faith! Believer in the Crucified ! I know thee, I abjure thee. Thou’rt no child Of Simon's house, no sister of Salone : I blot thee from my heart, I wipe away All memory of our youthful pleasant hours, Our blended sports and tasks, and joys and sorrows; Yea, I'll proclaim thee.


Sister ! dearest sister ! Thou seest that I cannot speak for tears.


Away! thou wilt not speak, thou dar’st not—Hark!
My father's armed footstep ! at whose tread
Sion rejoices, and the pavement stones
Of Salem shout with proud and boastful echoes.
The Gentiles' scourge, the Christians'—tremble, false




Father !


Dear father!


Daughters, I have been With Eleazar, and with John of Galilee, The son of Sadoc. We have search'd the city, If any rebel to our ordinance Do traitorously withhold his private hoard Of stolen provision from the public store.


And found ye any guilty of a fraud
So base on Judah's warriors ?


Yes, my children ! There sate a woman in a lowly house, And she had moulded meal into a cake; And she sate weeping even in wild delight Over her sleeping infants, at the thought Of how their eyes would glisten to behold The unaccustom'd food. She had not tasted Herself the strange repast : but she had raised The covering under which the children lay Crouching and clinging fondly to each other, As though the warmth that breath'd from out their

bodies Had some refreshment for their wither'd lips. We bared our swords to slay: but subtle John

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