going circumstances, and sought to induce them to remember their Creator in the days of their youth. There was that evening in the chapel a youth of nineteen, who had often been warned; but it is to be feared that he had not heeded the warning. He had often been invited to come to the Saviour, but had said, "It is time enough yet." That night, however, he was receiving his last warning, his last invitation: for on the following Wednesday, a fit of apoplexy suddenly terminated his earthly existence. Thus are the young reminded that in the midst of life they are in death, and that "man in his best estate, is altogether vanity.”

"Why should I say, 'tis yet too soon

To seek for heaven or think of death?
A flower may fade before 'tis noon,
And I this day may lose my breath."

Port-Arthur, Van Diemen's Land,
June 28th, 1842.

J. A. MANTON.

POETRY.

TO MY MOTHER.

BY LUCRETIA DAVIDSON IN HER SIXTEENTH YEAR.

O THOU whose care sustain'd my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove:

To thee my lay is due, the simple song,

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught, strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.

O say, amid this wilderness of life,

What bosom would have throbb'd like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive?-who, in grief,
Would e'er have felt and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon eye,

Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have mark'd my bosom bounding high,
And clasp'd me to her heart, with love's bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fann'd, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly press'd my fever'd lip,
In all the agony of love and woe?

None but a mother; none but one like thee,
Whose bloom had faded in the midnight watch;

Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,

Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch.

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom;
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief,

That woe hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. O then, to thee this rude and simple song,

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong, Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.

THE VOICE WITHIN. 1 THESS. v. 19.*

Down to whatever depths of sin
Hath been thy reckless course,
If still thou hear a voice within,
O, trace it to its source!

It comes from the eternal fount'
Of pity for distress,

And fain would lead thee to the mount
Of Calvary, and bless.

If God had yet forsaken thee,

That voice had ceased to speak;

He would not call to waken thee,
Did He no longer seek.

Then know Him, gracious as He is,
And quit the fatal path:

No voice inviting thee to bliss
Were yet a voice of wrath.

Think not of God as arm'd alone
His vengeance to fulfil;

But telling thee, in gentle tone,
He is a Father still.

Our fallen sire in Eden heard

His voice, and, fill'd with dread,
He pictured Him a Judge, and, stirr'd
With pangs of conscience, fled.

The prodigal, 'mid wants and fears
Remember'd he had spurn'd
A loving Father, and, in tears
Of penitence, return'd.

O! thou hast been the prodigal

In riot and excess:

Like him, too, hear a Father's call,
And mercy yet shall bless.

* From "Songs from the Parsonage."

THE SAILOR.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Ho! dwellers on the stable land,
Of danger what know ye,
Like us, who boldly brave the surge,
Or trust the treacherous sea?

The fair trees shade you from the sun;
You see the harvests grow,

And catch the fragrance of the breeze
When the first roses blow.

While high amid the slippery shroud,
We make our midnight path;
And e'en the strongest mast is bow'd
Beneath the tempest's wrath;→

You slumber on your couch of down,
In chambers safe and warm;
Lull'd only to a deeper dream
By the descending storm.

But yet, what know ye of the joy
That lights our ocean strife,
While on its way our gallant bark
Rides like a thing of life?

When gaily towards the wish'd-for port
With favouring gale we stand;
Or first your misty line descry,
Hills of our native land?

But yet there's peril in our path,
Beyond the wrecking blast;
A peril that may whelm the soul
When life's short voyage

past.

Send us your Bibles when we go

To dare the threatening wave; Your men of prayer, to teach us how To meet a watery grave.

And, Saviour, thou whose feet sublime
The foaming surge did tread,
Whose hand the rash disciple drew
From darkness and the dead;

O! be our ark, when floods descend,
When thunders shake the spheres ;
Our Ararat, when tempests end,
And the green earth appears.

Roche, Printer, 25, Hoxton-square, London.