there is a want of Christian courage among us; and that those especially who disapprove of such proceedings as Mr. Wolfe's, are too apt to yield their independence and their conscience to the zeal or the scruples of some of their associates. A man may be a most valuable missionary, who has strong peculiarities; but then let it be fairly explained that it is not for his peculiarities, but in spite of them, that he is supported by the funds of a charitable society, for the momentous work of preaching Christ to the heathen. St. Paul, in addressing the missionary Timothy, reckons among the gifts of God, not only "power" and "love," and the absence of "fear;" but "the spirit of a sound mind;" and I know not why this last quality should be dispensed with any more than the others. A COMMITTEE-MAN.

AMERICAN FASTS AND FESTIVALS.

Tothe Editorofthe Christian Observer.

I WAS much struck with the circumstance alluded to in your article on the State Prayers, in your last Number, that for so many years we have had no special service of prayer or thanksgiving, no fast or festival, no, not so much as a solitary collect. It is true, we have not had battles won or lost, royal births, deaths, or marriages; but are these the only occasions for national gratitude or supplication? We account our American brethren heathens in their national capacity; they at least only barely recognize the general truth of Christianity; yet special days of prayer and thanksgiving are appointed in the more religious states, and occasions are never found wanting for these devout observances. Just when your paper on State Prayers reached me, I had been perusing the proclamation of the Governor of the State of New York, appointing the 3d of last December

as a day of public prayer and thanksgiving to Almighty God for unmerited and unwonted fa-vours." "He has been graciously pleased," remarks the Governor, "to vouchsafe to us, during the past year, a continuance of peace with other nations, tranquillity at home, health, and abundant harvests. For these, and for his innumerable favours to us, as a people and as a nation, and that he may continue to us his mercy and protection, it is our bounden duty, with grateful hearts, solemnly and publicly to render our united and fervent thanks to our Divine Creator, Guide, and Protector."

Now, if occasions of prayer and praise are thus presented in New York, has Great Britain nothing to entreat or to be thankful for? I might mention several important junctures during even the present reign. Were none of them worthy of notice? Would it have been less important to have had a day of fasting and prayer to avert the natural displeasure of God at the time of the tremendous concussions three years ago, than to thank him for the battle of Salamanca, or some other occasion calculated only to excite one of those " flat prayers" which his late majesty so strongly reprobated. Would not the meeting of parliament, at the present time, under all the circumstances of the country, have been a fit occasion for a day of special supplication and prayer? Good men may differ as to the causes or the extent of national distress; but all must acknowledge from whence alone help can come.

66

A CHRISTIAN POLITICIAN.

I lament to find that this absence of all Christian reference has been again carried by his majesty's_ministers into the king's speech. Contrast this speech with the remarks in President Jackson's; and which nation will appear to the world in these important state documents, as verging nearest to practical Atheism?

POETRY FROM THE ANNUALS.

FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING.

We shall give our readers a few specimens of the poetry of two or three of the annuals for 1830; beginning with Mr. Pringle's Friendship's Offering, one of the earliest and best of them.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

By T. Pringle.

THIS fair volume to our eye

Human life may typify.

View the new-born infant's face

Ere yet mind hath stamped its trace,
Or the young brain begun to think-
'Tis like this book, ere touched by ink.
Look again: as time flows by,
Expression kindles in the eye;
And dawning intellect appears,
Gleaming through its smiles and tears,
Lightening up the living clay,
Year by year, and day by day:
While the passions, as they change
Write inscriptions, deep and strange;
Telling to observant eyes,
Life's eventful histories.

Lady, even so thy book

By degrees shall change its look,
As each following leaf is fraught
With some penned or pictured thought;
Or admits the treasured claims
Of endeared and honoured names;
While gleams of genius and of grace,
Like fine expression in a face,
Lend even to what is dark or dull
Some bright tinge of the beautiful.

Farther still, in graver mood,

Trace we the similitude.
Apter yet the emblen grows,
As we trace it to a close.

Life, with all its freaks and follies,
Mummeries and melancholies,
Fond conceits and ill-sought matches,
Is a book of shreds and patches:
Stained, alas! with many a blot,
And many a word we wish forgot,
And vain repinings for the past.

While time, who turns the leaves so fast
(The hour-glass in his other hand
With its ever-oozing sand),
Presents full soon the final page
To the failing eye of age,
Scribbled closely to the end,-
Without a space to mar or mend.

GOD AND HEAVEN.
By J. Bowring, LL.D.
THE silver chord is snapped;
The golden bowl is broken;

The mortal mould in darkness wrapped;
The words funereal spoken!
The tomb is built, or the rock is cleft,
Or delved is the grassy clod;
And what for mourning man is left?
O what is left-but God I

The tears are shed that mourned the dead,
The flowers they wore are faded;
The twilight dim hath veiled the sun,

And hope's sweet dreamings shaded:

And the thoughts of joy that were planted deep,
From our heart of hearts are riven;
And what is left us when we weep?
Oh what is left-but Heaven!

QUEEN CATHERINE'S SORROW.

By M. H.

'TWAS eve; and throughout London town Rang shout and revel loud;

And in every street and square was met
An eager gazing crowd:

And all along the open streets

Were flowers and garlands strown;
And distantly was heard the sound
Of trumpets loudly blown :
And masquers many came quickly by
With mime and comic show:
And fair dames, heralded along,
A stately train and slow;
And barges up the river came,

With pennons fluttering free;
Where gentle Anna Boleyn rode,
With a noble company.

And next the king, all blithe of heart,
Drest as a shepherd swain,
Came with the melody of pipes,

And a merry masking train.

And the crowd, as he went gaily on,
Shouted, in clamorous glee,
"God save our own King Henry,
For a jovial man is he."

Mean time, with melancholy brow,
And heart most desolate,
Good Catherine of Arragon

Within her chamber sate.
And she said unto her maiden,
"Leave off thy work, and bring
Thy lute; perchance my troubled soul
May be calmed as thou dost sing."
Then the maiden took her lute, and sang
A low and pleasant strain,

One that the queen had known and loved,
In her own land of Spain.

'Twas a simple air the maiden sang,
Like the spring bird's carol glad;
Yet the drooping eye of the queen was dim,
And her heavy soul was sad.

And thus she spake, "Thy strains are sweet,
Good maiden; yet give o'er:
For 'tis not pleasant melody

That can my peace restore!
There is within my aching heart
A void that still doth pine
For tender sympathies of love
And faith as true as mine.
I hoped to be a blessed thought
Within one breast; to sce
The eye of one beloved turn

In pleasant light on me.
'Tis a weary thing to sit alone,
And know that none take heed
Of the most desolate solitude,
The yearning spirit's need!
Ah me! what boots this regal state,
To reign o'er souls unknown?
My spirit sighed not for the power
And homage of a throne:
There was one heart,-my light of life,-
It hath deserted me!"

Three years went on; with heavy snows
Was heaped the wintry down,
When good queen Catherine lay sick
Within Kimbolton town.

King Henry, in a stately room
Of Lambeth-palace proud,
Sate 'mid the nobles of his land,
Where mirth was free and loud:
And in there came a little page,

Who had ridden in desperate speed, And he gave a letter to the king, Which he craved him to read.

The king took the letter in his hand,

And with haste the seal he brokeAt the first glance his cheek grew white, Yet not a word he spoke.

He read the letter, line by line,

And heaved a heavy sigh;
And ere he finished what was writ,
The tear was in his eye.

Then spake he with a changed voice,
"This letter comes from one-
The faithfullest wife man ever had,
Catherine, of Arragon :
She was a saint-like woman; meek,
Of earthly queens the queen.'-
Oh God! to me be merciful,

As she hath pardoning been!
And even now at the point of death
She lies, the kind and good,
And hath this loving token sent!-
Give o'er these revels rude-
Give o'er-I'll to my chamber now-
So may I be forgiven-

The faithfullest wife man ever had
Is now a saint in heaven!"

A CRY FROM SOUTH AFRICA. By James Montgomery. "The voice of one crying in the wilderness."MARK i. 3.

[The following lines were written in aid of an appeal to British benevolence to build a place of worship there for the Slaves, of whom there are about forty thousand in the colony.]

AFRIC, from her remotest strand,
Lifts to high Heaven one fettered hand;
And, to the utmost of her chain,

Stretches the other o'er the main ;

Then, kneeling midst ten thousand slaves,
Utters a cry across the waves,

Of power to reach to either pole,

And pierce, like conscience, through the soul—
Though dreary, faint, and low the sound,
Like life-blood gurgling from a wound,
As if her heart, before it broke,
Had found a human tongue and spoke.
"Britain, not now I ask of thee
Freedom, the right of bond and free;
Let Mammon hold, while Mammon can,
The bones and blood of living man;
Let tyrants scorn, while tyrants dare,
The shrieks and writhings of despair;
An end will come,-it will not wait,
Bonds, yokes, and scourges have their date;
Slavery itself must pass away
And be a tale of yesterday.
But now I urge a dearer claim,
And urge it in a mightier name;
Hope of the world! on Thee I call,
By the great Father of us all,
By the Redeemer of our race,
And by the Spirit of all grace,
Turn not, oh! turn not from my plea,
-So help thee God, as thou helpst me!
"Mine outcast children come to light
From darkness, and go down in night-

A night of more mysterious gloom
Than that which wrapt them in the womb:
-Oh! that the womb had been the grave

Of every being born a slave!

Oh! that the grave itself might close

The slave's unutterable woes!

But what beyond that gulph may be,

What portion in eternity,

For those who live to curse their breath,

And die without a hope in death,

I know not-and I dare not think;

Yet while I shudder o'er the brink
Of that unfathomable deep,

Where wrath lies chained and judgments sleep,
To thee, thou Paradise of Isles!
Where mercy in full glory smiles;
Eden of lands! o'er all the rest,
By blessing others, doubly blest,
To Thee I lift my weeping eye,
Send me the Gospel or I die;
The word of Christ's salvation give,
That I may hear his voice and live."

THE BECHUANA BOY.

By 1. Pringle.

[The chief incidents of this little Tale were related to the author by an African boy, whom he first met with near the borders of the Great Karroo, or Arid Desert. The expression of the orphan stranger, when asked about his kindred, was literally "I am all alone in the world." The system of outrage and oppression, of which this story exhibits a specimen, has been ably developed by the Rev. Dr. Philip, in his "Researches in South Africa."]

I SAT at noontide in my tent,

And looked across the Desert dun,
That 'neath the cloudless firmament
Lay gleaming in the sun,-
When from the bosom of the waste
A swarthy stripling came in haste,
With foot unshod and naked limb,
And a tame springbok following him,
He came with open aspect bland,

And modestly before me stood,
Caressing with a kindly hand

That fawn of gentle brood; Then, meekly gazing in my face, Said in the language of his race,

With smiling look yet pensive tone"Stranger-I'm in the world alone!"

"Poor boy," I said, “ thy kindred's home,

Beyond far Stormberg's ridges blue, Why hast thou left so young-to roam

This desolate Karroo?"

The smile forsook him while I spoke;
And when again he silence broke,
It was with many a stifled sigh

He told this strange sad history.

"I have no kindred!" said the boy;

"The Bergenaars-by night they came, And raised their murder shout of joy,

While o'er our huts the flame
Rushed like a torrent; and their yell
Pealed louder as our warriors fell
In helpless heaps beneath their shot-
One living man they left us not!
"The slaughter o'er, they gave the slain

To feast the foul-beaked birds of prey;
And with our herds across the plain
They hurried us away-

The widowed mothers and their brood:
Oft, in despair, for drink and food
We vainly cried-they heeded not,
But with sharp lash the captives smote.

"Three days we tracked that dreary wild,
Where thirst and anguish pressed us sore;
And many a mother and her child
Lay down to rise no more:
Behind us, on the desert brown,
We saw the vultures swooping down;
And heard, as the grim night was falling,
The gorged wolf to his comrade calling.
"At length was heard a river sounding

Midst that dry and dismal land,
And, hke a troop of wild deer bounding,
We hurried to its strand-
Among the maddened cattle rushing,
The crowd behind still forward pushing,
Till in the flood our limbs were drenched,
And the fierce rage of thirst was quenched.
"Hoarse-roaring, dark, the broad Gareep

In turbid streams was sweeping fast,
Huge sea cows in its eddies deep

Loud snorting as we passed;
But that relentless robber clan
Right through those waters wild and wan
Drove on like sheep our captive host,
Nor staid to rescue wretches lost.

"All shivering from the foaming flood,

We stood upon the stranger's ground,
When, with proud looks and gestures rude,
The White men gathered round:
And there, like cattle from the fold,
By Christians we were bought and sold,
Midst laughter loud and looks of scorn,--
And roughly from each other torn.

" My mother's scream so long and slurill,
My little sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.

A tiger's heart came to me then,^
And madly 'mong those ruthless men
I sprang!-Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.
"Away-away on bounding steeds

The White man-stealers fleetly go,
Through long low valleys fringed with reeds,

O'er mountains capped with snow,-
Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock bound ridge was passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the land of tears and toil.
"And tears and toil have been my lot
Since I the White man's thrall became,
And sorer griefs I wish forgot-

Harsh blows and burning shame.
Oh, English chief! thou ne'er canst know
The injured bondman's bitter woe,
When, round his heart, like scorpions, cling
Black thoughts that madden while they sting!

"Yet this hard fate I might have borne, And taught in time my soul to bend, Ilad my sad yearning breast forlorn

But found a single friend:
My race extinct or far removed,

The boor's rough brood I could have loved-
But each to whom my bosom turned
Even like a hound the Black boy spurned !

"While, friendless thus, my master's flocks
I tended on the upland waste,

It chanced this fawn leapt from the rocks,
By wolfish wild dogs chased:

1 rescued it, though wounded sore,
All dabbled with its mother's gore,
And nursed it in a cavern wild
Until it loved me like a child.
Gently I nursed it-for I thought
(Its hapless fate so like to mine)
By good Utika it was brought
To bid me not repine-
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived to love me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.
"Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,

My task the proud boor's flocks to tend;
And this pet fawn was all I had

To love, or call my friend;
When, suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy,
Who envied me my only joy.

"High swelled my heart!-But when the star
Of midnight gleamed, I softly led
My bounding favourite forth, and far
Into the Desert fled.

And there, from human kind exiled,
Four moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared-and braved the beasts of prey
To 'scape from spoilers worse than they.
"But yester morn a Bushman brought

The tidings that thy tents were here,
And now rejoicingly I've sought

Thy presence-roid of fear ;
Because they say, O English chief,
Thou scornest not the captive's grief:
Then let me serve thee-as thine own-
For I am in the world alone!"

Such was Marossi's touching tale.

Our breasts they were not made of stoneIlis words, his winning looks prevailWe took him for "our own;" And one, with woman's gentle art, Unlock'd the fountains of his heart, And love gushed forth, till he became Her child-in every thing but uame.

By

Sermons preached in India. the late Right Reverend REGINALD HEBER, D.D. Lord Bishop of Calcutta. 1 vol. 8vo. London: 1829.

THIS volume of sermons, preached in India by the lamented and eminent Bishop Heber, commences with the valedictory address of the Society for promoting Christian Knowledge to his lordship, delivered by the present bishop of Lincoln, together with his lordship's reply; and concludes with an address on

Confirmation, delivered at Trinchinopoly, April 3, 1826. The volume is edited by Mrs. Heber, who feelingly observes, in the short preface

which introduces the work, that "the address on Confirmation will

be read with melancholy interest, from the circumstance of its delivery having been the concluding act of her husband's public life. In

less than two hours after he had thus earnestly exhorted his congregation, he was summoned to meet his Saviour." The event was indeed truly awful, and renders every part of that address deeply interesting; but the conclusion of it is so much in unison with the feelings with which a pious minister would wish to meet death, and so peculiarly appropriate to the near, though unforeseen, termination of the bishop's earthly labours, that we shall make no apology for introducing it here. After speaking of the consistent Christian," at length laying down his tranquil head in death, in the sure and certain hope of a resurrection to eternal life, beloved and regretted by those who have witnessed his demeanour on earth, and welcomed by those angels who shall convey his soul to the land of rest and thankfulness," he adds

"And now farewell! depart in the faith and favour of the Lord; and if what you have learned and heard this day has been

so far blessed as to produce a serious and lasting effect on you, let me entreat you to remember sometimes in your prayers those ministers of Christ who now have laboured for your instruction; that we who have preached to you may not ourselves be cast away, but that it may be given to us also the words of the Gospel which we have to walk in this life present according to received of our Lord, and to rejoice hereafter with you the children of our care, in that land where the weary shall find repose, and the wicked cease from troubling; where we shall behold God as he is, and be ourselves made like unto God in innocence, and happiness, and immortality!" p. 310.

The sermons are introduced by "a Charge delivered to the clergy of the diocese of India." It had been previously published at Calcutta, and Obs. 1825, p. 195): but it well dehas been noticed in our pages (Christ.

serves a wider circulation. The subjects on which it treats, though apparently local, have an intimate connexion with our church at home, and missionary establishments; and no clergyman ought to go out to India, either as a chaplain at the presidencies, or an evangelist to the natives, without being apprized of the facts, and imbued with the principles, which it contains. The bishop laments the great inefficiency of the church establishment in India to meet the wants of the three presidencies. He says

"It is in the hope of so far exciting (by an unvarnished statement of our wants) the zeal of our brethren at home, as not to render vain the Christian care of our

rulers, that I am induced to mention (what, to those who hear me, is unhappily in numerical strength, of the clergy on the but too familiar) the very great deficiency, Indian establishment. Of twenty-eight chaplains assigned by the Honourable Company to the presidency of Fort William, fifteen only are now on their posts, and effective...... The consequence has been, that, even in Calcutta and its vicinity, some churches must have been shut up but for the occasional help of clergymen not in the Company's service; that at Cawnpoor, a single labourer is sinking under the duty of a military cantonment about five miles in length, containing two places of worship, two burial grounds, two