The voices of beloved friends

For sands where silence reigns;

The thrush was wont to break his rest,
Low warbling near his door,
Like thunder these, the echoing rocks,
Give back the lion's roar.

All, all, he quits-that aged sire,
With locks of silver gray,

Who taught his childish tongue to speak,
His infant lips to pray.

He craved his blessing, on his neck

The weeping father hung

"The Lord be with thee, 'tis His workHis will, not mine, be done.”

He knelt before his mother's knee,
Where he, a babe, had slept,
Whose eye had watch'd his infancy,
And o'er his cradle wept ;

That mother's faith was firm and high,
And as she clasp'd her son,

She felt that his reward was sure,

His joy immortal won.

He held his brother's hand in his,

The playmate of his youth,

Whose younger mind himself had taught

To seek the paths of truth;

The partner of his boyhood's couch,

The sharer of his heart,

He bless'd and pray'd that sorrow ne'er Might be that brother's part.

His sister, of all earthly things
The dearest to his breast,
The cherish'd inmate of his soul,
The fairest and the best;
Though in her gifted angel-frame
Each loveliness combined,
Still fairer was the radiant gem
The casket held enshrined.

A soul as pure as ever dwelt
In erring human form,

A heart with each affection rich,
With every virtue warm.

She was her brother's idol, all

His hopes were center'd there,

The spring of all his earthly joys,
The object of his care.

And could he leave her? Yes, the love

That burn'd within his breast,

Of Him who died, a world to save,

No more might be represt;
He left his sister, parents, all
That earth to him had given,
In heathen lands to speak His name
And guide the lost to Heaven.

But not alone he went, for prayers
Were with him on the deep,
And nightly dreams of those he left
Came o'er his peaceful sleep;
And many souls received the gift,-
The gift of Life he bore,

And grateful thousands bless'd the day
That brought him to the shore.

MY MOTHER.

My Mother! Oh! what tenderness appears
In that loved name; nurse of my infancy!
(Soothing my cries through many an anxious day,)
Guide of my youth! friend of my riper years!
My Mother, well my song may be of thee,—
For thou didst lead my infant steps to God;

Strewing with Love's sweet flowers the narrow road
That leads from Time to blest Eternity.

Though now my home is distant far from thee,
And other ties are twined around my heart;
Yet thy dear image never shall depart :
Thy looks of love live in my memory;
Still I retrace them with a fond delight,-

Thou art my thought by day, my dream by night.

THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER.

Cowper.

PHILOSOPHY, baptized

In the pure fountain of eternal love,
Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees
As meant to indicate a God to man,

Gives Him his praise, and forfeits not her own.
Learning has borne such fruit in other days
On all her branches. Piety has found

Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer
Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews.
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage!

Sagacious reader of the works of God,

And in his word sagacious. Such too, thine,
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,

He looks abroad into the varied field

Of nature; and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers; his to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And, smiling, say, My Father made them all.
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of interest his,

Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love,
That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world,
So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man?
Acquaint thyself with God, if thou would'st taste
His works. Admitted once,

Thine eye shall be instructed: and thine heart
Made pure, shall relish with divine delight,
Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.
Brutes graze the mountain top with faces prone,