THE MORNING FLOWERS.

The morning flowers display their sweets,

And gay their silken leaves unfold; As careless of the noontide heats,

As fearless of the evening cold:

Nipt by the wind's unkindly blast,

Parch'd by the sun's directer ray, The momentary glories waste,

The short-lived beauties die away.

So blooms the human face divine,

When youth its pride of beauty shows; Fairer than Spring the colours shine,

And sweeter than the virgin rose.

Or worn by slowly rolling years,

Or broke by sickness in a day, The fading glory disappears,

And short-lived beauties die away.

Yet these new rising from the tomb,

With lustra brighter far shall shine ; Revive with ever-during bloom,

Safe from diseases and decline.

Let sickness blast, let death devour,

If Heaven shall recompense our pains ; Perish the grass, and fade the flower, If firm the Word of God remains.

C. WESLEY. THE PRINCE OF SALEM.

When Jordan hush'd his waters still,
And silence slept on Zion's hill;
When Bethel's shepherds through the night,
Watch'd o'er their focks by starry light,

Hark! from the midnight hills around,
A voice of more than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujah's stole,
Wild murmuring o'er the raptur'd soul.

Then swift to every startled eye,
New streams of glory light the sky;
Heaven bursts her azure gates to shower,
Efulgence on the midnight hour.

On wheels of light, on wings of flame,
The glorious hosts of Zion came;
High heav'n with songs of triumph rung,
While Angels thus with rapture sung.

O Zion! lift thy longing eye,
The long expected hour is nigh ;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

See, mercy from her golden urn,
Pours comfort's streams to those that mourn;
Behold her bind, with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of -despair.

He comes ! to cheer the trembling heart,
Bids Satan and his hosts depart;
Again the Day-Star gilds the gloom;
Again the bowers of Eden bloom !

O Zion! lift thy longing eye,
The long expected hour is nigh;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.

CAMPBELL.

HOPE.

Hope, on her anchor leaning, stands secure,
Her ground immutable, her prospects sure,
Calm, in the midst of the surrounding storm,
And in the calmest scene, devoutly warm.
Such is the Christian's hope, but hopes there are
Which lead to disappointment and despair,
Founded on quick-sands which must soon give way,
And sink the soul that trusts them in dismay,