Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale,'

Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now;
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale

And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow;
Oh! then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying

From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown ;-
And the wild hymus she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
Were echo'd in heaven by lips like her own!

Weep not for her, -in her spring-time she flew

To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd,
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.
AIR-Stevenson.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their

caves,

Or when the stillness of the sea,

Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's
track;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through!

E'en more than music, breathes of There's nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that

Thee!

I'll seek by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne !
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,

1 This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne Church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriagebells seemed scarcely out of our ears, when we

glow,

But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy deity!

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

heard of her death. During her last delirium, she sang several hymns in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were 30me from the present collection (particularly There's nothing bright but Heaven'), which this very interesting girl had often heard during the summer.

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

AIR-Avison.1

And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and a!! the women vent out after her with timbrels and with dances.'-Exod. xv. 20.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.
Sing-for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,
How vain was their boasting!-the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd—his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord,

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!—
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd, his people are free.

GO, LET ME WEEP.
AIR-Stevenson.

Go, let me weep! there's bliss in tears,
When he, who sheds them, inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years

Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth, and never rise;
While tears, that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep! there's bliss in tears,
When he, who sheds them, inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years

E.faced by every drop that steals,

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,

'I have so altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognised,

And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw,

But left no trace of sweets behind.-The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves Is cold, is faint, to those that swell The heart, where pure repentance grieves

O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well!

Leave me to sigh o'er days that flew

More idly than the summer's wind, And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw,

But left no trace of sweets behind.

2 And it came to pass, that in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians.'Exod. xiv. 24.