THE MARTYR'S HYMN.

W. Johnson.

HOLY Jesus! King of Glory!

Hosts on high thy praise proclaim; Joyful would my soul adore thee, That I suffer for thy name. Now I leave this world of sorrow, Leave this faint and dying clay, Soar on angels' wings, to borrow Robes of angels' bright array. Set, O set my spirit free; Let me die, to live with thee!

Now I see thee, Saviour, bending

From thy glorious throne on high :

See the cherubim descending,
With the chariots of the sky.
These shall waft my fainting spirit
To thy blissful home above,
In thy presence to inherit
Realms of everlasting love.
Set, O set my spirit free;
Let me die, to live with thee!

Farewell, Earth, with all its treasures,
Empty, poor, and base alloy;
Come, ye pure celestial pleasures,
Scenes of transport, love, and joy ;
Heavenly raptures rise before me,
Tastes of bliss till now unknown;
Heaven appears in all its glory,

Jesus on the eternal throne.

Now my soaring soul is free,
Lord, I rise to reign with thee!

ANONYMOUS.

WHEN We, our weary limbs to rest,
Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,
We wept, with doleful thoughts opprest,
And Zion was our mournful theme.

Our harps, that when with joy we sung,
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings neglected hung
On willow trees that wither'd there.

Meanwhile our foes, who all conspired To triumph in our slavish wrongs, Music and mirth of us required,

Come, sing us one of Zion's songs."

How shall we tune our voice to sing,
Or touch our harps with skilful hands?
Shall hymns of joy to God our King
Be sung by slaves in foreign lands?

O Salem! our once happy seat!
When I of thee forgetful prove,

Let then my trembling hand forget
The speaking strings which are to move.

If I to mention thee forbear,
Eternal silence seal my tongue;
Or if I sing one cheerful air,
Till thy deliverance is my song.

A HYMN AT SUNSET AMONG THE ALPS.

OH Thou, who hast thine altar made
On every mountain's brow;
Whose temple is the forest's shade,
Its arch the forest bough;

Thou hast ever listen'd when we prayed,

And thou wilt hear us now.

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Full kingly is thy royal grace

On the wide world pour'd forth;

From the sunny south, "in pride of place,"

To the icy-girded north,

The glorious beauty of thy face

Doth shine upon the earth.

To each to all-thy bounty flows,
Full, boundless, deep, and free;

Thou hast flowers for earth, and stars for heaven,
And gems for the blue sea;

And for us our everlasting hills,

And hearts which dauntless be.

More hast thou given, oh God! yet more
Than our spirits true and bold;
And our mighty mountain sentinels,
Those watchers stern and old-
The shadow of a glorious past
Our memory doth enfold,

That little band of shepherd men,

Who left their flocks with Thee,

And, strong in heart, went boldly forth
To make our mountains free-

Thy hand was with their steadfast worth,
And they won the victory.

And they, the saints of later time,
Who dwell in places lone,

And wandering exiles for their faith,
Through toil and famine, fight and death
Their martyry crowns have won.—
'Twas thou received their fleeting breath
And they sit beneath thy throne.

Forsake us not, but as of old
So let our spirits be;

And give us still the courage bold
To keep our mountains free;
And our ancestral faith to hold,
Wherewith we worship thee.

The cattle on a thousand hills,
The feeble and the small-

We leave throughout the silent night,
Nor fear lest harm befal;

For thou who bless'd the patriarch's store,
Wilt guard and keep them all.

Praise from the mountain's lordly crest,

Praise from the valley lone,

For all our daily blessedness,

For our bright ones who are gone, To thee, the mightiest, wisest, best, The great Eternal One!