of wo, Who best can drink his cup Triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, The martyr first, whose eagle eye Like Him, with pardon on his tongue He prayed for them that did the wrong. A glorious band, the chosen few, On whom the Spirit came; Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, They met the tyrant's brandished steel, They bowed their necks the death to feel. A noble army-men and boys, The matron and the maid- They climb the steep ascent of heaven, THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. WEEP not, O mother, sounds of lamentation; Strong is the Word of God to succor thee! Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him ; Hide his pale features with the sable pall; Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him, Widowed and childless, she has lost her all. Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping? Change then, O sad one, grief to exultation; EPIPHANY. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining, Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean ; Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gold would his favor secure ; Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. MISSIONS. FROM Greenland's icy mountains, Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile: In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high; Waft, waft ye winds, His story, BERNARD BARTON, A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, is the author of numerous poems, marked alike by sweetness of versification, and tender and Christian feeling. A collection of Bernard Barton's poems has recently been published, under the title of "Household Verses." "In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth."-Ps. xc. 6. I WALKED the fields at morning's prime, The grass was ripe for mowing; "And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy, Deems life's inheritance is joy- I wandered forth at noon :-Alas! The scythe had left the withering grass, And thus, I thought with many a sigh, Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed, While every breeze that round me played, |