While the triumphant church above,
Burst forth in shouts of victory,

And hails with newer songs of love
Thy blest Nativity.

Forget not, Lord, to feed and bless

Thy few poor sheep in this lone wilderness!

THE MISSIONARY'S HOME,
His home? 'tis where the stately palm,
In eastern pride is waving;

Where 'mid bright nature's placid calm,
Is heard the voice of raving!
There doth he raise the standard high,
That tells of light and liberty,

And counts all earthly treasures dross,
To win these lost ones to the Cross.

His home? 'tis fanned by southern breeze,
'Neath myrtle shades it gleams,

Where odours greet him from the trees,
Soft music from the streams :

But sin his withering blight hath shed,

And all of bliss is banished,

And error rules with sway supreme,
And truth bewails her hidden beam.
His home? 'tis far o'er western seas,

Where dark woods proudly stand,→
Where borne upon the wingéd breeze,
Speeds the red Indian's wand :-
And there the weary captives weep,
And long for death's unbroken sleep,
And darkness as a rayless night,
Veils justice from perverted sight.

His home? 'tis where the northern blast,
O'er steril lands is sweeping;

The ice-bound stream, the snowy waste,
Around that home are sleeping:

And frigid as the barren clime,

And buried 'mid vain thoughts of time,
Lost man, nor sees the peril nigh,

Nor shrinks from dread eternity.

P. C. S.

well as in the school-room,-at class, at study, amidst companions, as well as under the eye of the master when giving a Bible lesson. Religion must not come from the teacher's lips only, but must exhibit itself in his humble, kind, and affectionate conduct, beam forth in his face, and mingle its holy influence in the very tones of his voice; this, and nothing less than this, constitutes religious education.-Proceedings of Home and Colonial Infant School

Society.

THE PLEASURE OF LEARNING.

Does he come into the

A CHILD has a number of faculties. world with a disinclination to use them? No: he delights to use them; and every time he uses them, he feels more inclination to do so. The mind is ready to work, only let the work be suited to its capacity. Lay open the avenues to knowledge, make your steps easy, and labour will then be its own reward.-Proceedings of Home and Colonial Infant School Society.

THE SPIRIT OF PRAYER.

THERE is a vast difference between the pleading of an orator, and the pleading of a malefactor. The former hath, perhaps, a more smooth, elegant, and starched discourse, but he handles it with a light finger; a friend or a fee would take him off; but the malefactor that pleads for his life, cries and begs; the judge interrupts him, but he goes on; the jailor tries to stop his mouth, but he will proceed; all the court cannot distract his mind from his business: his heart is wholly in it. And so it is with a pious and serious saint; he can truly say, Lord! thou hast more of my heart than ever any creature in the world had; my heart is fixed; I am set upon this affair; the great matters I am about, I neither can live nor dare die without them, and therefore blame me not that I am busy. It is the prayer that costs us much which prevails. -Steele.

WHAT DOES GOD CALL US?

"AND God said thy name is Jacob." It signifies very little what the world calls our name; the important question is, " What does God say that my name is ?"-Cecil.

POETRY.

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.

ONCE more, on time's swift pinions borne,
We hail Redemption's festal morn;
Again, with one accord

Our grateful songs we raise,

Our tribute of adoring praise,

To Thee, our dearest LORD!

REDEEMER! did'st thou come
From thine eternal home,
-Leaving the bosom of thy Father's love,
The holy, happy courts above,

To dwell with man below,

EMMANUEL! GOD WITH US, to heal our mortal woe?

Oh! wondrous depth of grace Divine !

Unequall'd, deep humility! SAVIOUR! was ever love like thine?

Was ever friend like thee?

Oh! touch with hallowed fire, Our hearts that grovel here on earth; That we may join th' angelic choir, To celebrate thy birth!

Before thy manger low

Our prostrate spirits bow,

On this new cradle gaze our wondering eyes;
See where the new-born infant lies,

Is this the LORD OF HEAVEN?

Is this the MIGHTY ONE,

Th' ETERNAL FATHER'S CO-ETERNAL SON,
For man's transgression given?

"Tis He! 'tis He!" the angelic hosts reply;
Mortals! behold your dayspring dawn,

31

Yet, SAVIOUR! not for them
Thou laids't thy glory by;
Thou cam'st not to redeem
The tenants of the sky!
For us,-for lost mankind,

Was paid the price of blood ;
O! wherefore lingers thus behind,
Our falt'ring gratitude?

Thou knowest, Lord, our feeble frame,
Thou knowest, from the dust we came,
And shall to dust return;

Our blemish'd sacrifice

Is precious in thine eyes,

Nor wilt thou spurn

The freewill offering of a broken heart,
That clings to thee, and would from sin depart.

We too shall sing!

And shout for joy of soul!

When the loud trump from pole to pole,

Heralds the second coming of our King!

Not angels there alone

His advent shall proclaim,

We too, his ransom'd ones, his own,
Gather'd from every tongue and name,

A countless, joyful throng,

Louder than they, shall swell his welcome song.

Ev'n so, LORD JESUS, come!

Thy people's longing eyes,
Expectant, to the skies,

Are upward turn'd toward their home.

Why stay thy chariot wheels, O Lord?
Creation groaneth until now,

Waiting to see the glorious show,

Of those redeem'd by thy victorious word!

Till that bright morn appear,
Remember, Lord, for good,
Thy church in conflict here,
The purchase of thy blood!

While the triumphant church above,
Burst forth in shouts of victory,
And hails with newer songs of love
Thy blest Nativity.

Forget not, Lord, to feed and bless

Thy few poor sheep in this lone wilderness!

THE MISSIONARY'S HOME,
His home? 'tis where the stately palm,
In eastern pride is waving ;

Where 'mid bright nature's placid calm,
Is heard the voice of raving!
There doth he raise the standard high,
That tells of light and liberty,

And counts all earthly treasures dross,
To win these lost ones to the Cross.

His home? 'tis fanned by southern breeze,
'Neath myrtle shades it gleams,

Where odours greet him from the trees,

Soft music from the streams :

But sin his withering blight hath shed,
And all of bliss is banished,

And error rules with sway supreme,
And truth bewails her hidden beam.

His home? 'tis far o'er western seas,
Where dark woods proudly stand,
Where borne upon the wingéd breeze,
Speeds the red Indian's wand :-
And there the weary captives weep,
And long for death's unbroken sleep,
And darkness as a rayless night,
Veils justice from perverted sight.

His home? 'tis where the northern blast,
O'er steril lands is sweeping;

The ice-bound stream, the snowy waste,
Around that home are sleeping:

And frigid as the barren clime,
And buried 'mid vain thoughts of time,
Lost man, nor sees the peril nigh,

Nor shrinks from dread eternity.

P. C. S.