looking at it and conversing with it. Then we have portraits of Mr. Buxton, Mrs. Fry, and Mahommed Ali, a Persian convert. Among the landscapes, are Views of Antioch, Nazareth, the Cedars of Lebanon, Canton, Scene in South Africa, an Interior of the Holy Sepulchre, and a very beautiful scene illustrative of a passage in the Pilgrim's Progress, by an artist to whose merits we shall take another opportunity of doing justice. The whole collection is of the first order. But we must now hasten to lay before our readers a few specimens of the contents. The volume is rich in poetry, and the following stanzas are worthy of a place in the Missionary Annual, for their beauty of sentiment as well as genuine pathos.

THE GRAVE OF THE MISSIONARY.

'He rests not where the solemn yew
Bends o'er the marble tomb,
And death seems deadlier in the hue
Of still and sacred gloom.

He rests not where the holy pile
Repeats, through chancel dim,
And hollow vaults, and pillar'd aisle,
The slow-resounding hymn.

He sleeps not where his fathers sleep
Amid the hamlet's graves;

Where chimes the dull brook, softly deep,

And long dark heather waves.

But where the sparkling southern isles
Midst pearl and coral lie,

He bore this earth's most earthless toils,
And laid him down to die.

The mildest tropic airs fan round
The palm that shades his rest,

And the richest verdure lines the ground
That presses on his breast.

And there the sun, through scented glooms
Slants his departing beam,

And the heron laves its azure plumes
In the bright adjacent stream.

And there the Deep's low, rolling tone
Is heard when the stars are bright;
When the breeze is low, and men are gone
To the cradling dreams of night.

No dirge was breathed along the vale,
As his palless bier passed on;

No flowers were strewn, and the spicy gale
Had nought of sigh or moan..

VOL. XIV.-N.S.

X X

which thorow the holy goost sent down fro heaue haue preached v you the thynges which the angels delyte to beholde..

Sds Wherefore gyrde up the loynes of your mynde, be sober, and try perfectly on the grace that is brought vnto you, by the declaryn Jesus Christ, as obediet chyldre, not fashionyng your selues to olde lustes of ignoraunce, but as he which hath called you is 1. so be ye holy also in all youre conuersacyon: for it is wrytten : holy, for I am holy.'

ROMANS XI. 1-6.

I say the: Hath god thrust out his people? God also am an Israelit, of the sede of Abraham out of the t Jamin. God hathe not thruste out his people, whom i Or wote ye not what the scripture sayeth of Elyas intercessio vnto God against Israell, and sayeth: L slayne thy prophetes, and dygged downe thyne alt. ouer onely, and they seke my lyfe? But what God vnto him? I haue reserued vnto me seuer haue not bowed their knee before Baall. Eac tyme also with this remnaunt after the elece done of grace, then is it not of deseruynge But if it be of deseruig, the is grace nothi deseruynge.'

Art. IX. 1. The Christian Keepsa'
William Ellis. Price 15s. in

2. Fisher's Drawing Room Scra

HRISTMAS presents in
flowering before leaves

the years whirl round rap
antedated. We do not
in the face, before we
predecessor. Such we
with these elegant
smoothed the mome
Son, and Jackson
more admirably
the embellishme
seen in any for
portrait of the
dicated, front-

with his two

the highest kine

good old Wilberforce,

and characteristic portrait

looking at it and conversing with it. Then we have
Mr. Buxton, Mrs. Fry, and Mahommed Ali, a Pers
Among the landscapes, are Views of Antioch,
Cedars of Lebanon, Canton, Scene in South After
of the Holy Sepulchre, and a very beautiful scene
a passage in the Pilgrim's Progress, by an artist
we shall take another opportunity of doing just
collection is of the first order. But we must r
before our readers a few specimens of the conte
is rich in poetry, and the following stanzas ar a
in the Missionary Annual, for their beauty
as genuine pathos.

ND THIRTY-THREE.
M.

1, the dear? itly on,

ye go.

ing back

se for ever flown.

let's

ity,

d,

ve the skaith of ill,

and the reckless blast

with still.

loathe

orms of e from G

can ye lo

ve ye rathe runk of His ho stripped t The platted t

'No words were said, as dust to dust
They lowered him from the day;
They rear'd above no sculptured bust,
And they coffined not his clay.

'But conchs, and frantic howls, and yells
Ring through the twilight air;

And they cast their plumes and dazzling shells Upon the matted bier.

· Far had he come; with storm and care

His anxious soul had striven.

But can the spirit feel despair,

Whose hopes know God and Heaven?

'O'er his father land another sky Hung in the hours of sleep,

The strong winds of that shore rushed high, With a louder, stormier

sweep.

FRIENDS LOST IN EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE.

By the Rev. H. F. LYTE, A.M.

Gone?-have ye then gone?

The good, the beautiful, the kind, the dear?
Passed to your glorious rest so swiftly on,
And left me weeping here?

I gaze on yon bright track,

I hear your voices lessening as ye go.
Have ye no sign, no solace, to fling back
To us who toil below?

They hear not my faint cry,

Beyond the range of sense for ever flown.

I see them melt into eternity,

And feel I am alone.

To the high haven passed,

They anchor far above the skaith of ill,
While the stern billow and the reckless blast
Are mine to cope with still.

'Oh! from that land of love,

Look ye not sometimes on this world of wo?
Think ye not, dear ones, in bright bowers above,
Of those ye left below?

Surely ye note us here,

Though not as we appear to mortal view.

And can we still with all our stains be dear

To spirits pure as you?

'Do ye not loathe-not spurn

The worms of clay, the slaves of sense and will?

When ye from God and glory earthward turn,

Oh! can ye love us still?

'Or have ye rather now

Drunk of His Spirit whom ye worship there;
Who stripped the crown of glory from his brow,
The platted thorns to wear?