At once his own bright prospect to be blest,
And strongest motive to assist the rest.

Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart?
Extend it, let thy enemies have part;

Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense,
In one close system of benevolence :
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,

And height of bliss but height of charity.

God loves from whole to parts, but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, His country next, and next all human race; Wide and more wide th' o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in, of every kind;

Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And Heaven beholds its image in his breast.

EASTER DAY.

[JOHN MASON GOOD.]

Truly this was the Son of God.-Matt. xxvii. 54.

YES, this was the Son of God.

"Tis for man he bears the rod:

Earth and skies are veiled in grief;

Man alone shews unbelief.

''Tis finish'd.'—Through creation's bound Fly, O fly, triumphant sound!

"Tis finish'd!' Heaven transported sings; "Tis finish'd!' Earth re-echoing rings.

"Tis finish'd!'-Through the realms of woe The hated accents sternly flow:

"Tis finish'd!' man the traitor lives;

The ransom's paid, and God forgives.

'Tis finish'd!'-Yes, the toil is o'er :
The wond'rous toil the Saviour bore.
From Death's dread jaws the sting he draws,
And on the cross achieves his cause.

Sing the cross:-O badge of shame!
Be Staff of Glory now thy name.
Sing the cross: for, o'er thy tree,
What triumphs crowd, blest Calvary!

"Tis finish'd!'-The mysterious plan,
The mighty destiny of man.
Angels had gazed with baffled skill,
And time but travelled to fulfil.

"Tis finish'd!'-All the vision high
That rapt, of old, the prophet's eye;
And still with ecstasy shall break
O'er the last martyr's flaming stake.

"Tis finish'd!'-See the victor rise;
Shake off the grave, and claim the skies.
Ye heav'ns! your doors wide open fling:
Ye angel-quires! receive your King.

"Tis finish'd!'-But what mortal dare
In that triumph hope to share?
Saviour! to thy cross I flee:
Say "Tis finish'd!' and for me!

Then I'll sing the cross! the cross!
And count all other gain but loss:
I'll sing the cross, and to thy tree
Cling evermore, blest Calvary!

ODE,

TO A SWEET-BRIAR IN INDIA.

[REV. JOHN LAWSON, LATE MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA.]

O STRANGER, welcome as a long-lost dream
Art thou to me, a wanderer like thyself.
Far from my home, and thine,

We meet, but O how chang'd!

Not that thy form less lovely seems to me-
Thy foliage less perfum'd; but frailer far
Than when at home thy boughs

Hung o'er my weary head.

Thou seem'st a tender shade of what thou wert,
Paler and shrinking from the sun's deep gaze
That urgeth the quick growth

Of thy transparent leaves.

But there is magic in thy odorous breath,
I own thy sweet control, and think of thee,
And seem to live again

With thee in other climes.

I see thy shadow at the cottage door
Besprinkled o'er with sun-beams round and bright,
Like yellow guineas thrown

Where wealth had never been.

And there re-blooms the jessamine that help'd With thee to form the poor man's silent bower, Weaving o'er head her flowers

Like snow-stars, with thine own.

Nor was the honeysuckle absent then,

But twisted her streak'd blossoms with thy leaves, Asking support from thee,

Repaying with her grace.

The low thatch met thy topmost branches, where The deep green moss, and golden stone crop grew, And house-leek, never sere,

Smiled in her sunny bed.

The busy wren there lodged her curious nest,
And ever and anon her whistle came

Full on the rushing wind,

Like melody from heaven.

Yon scented garden charmed my infant days
With all that summer cherishes to life;
The peony was there,

Beside the balmy thyme.

O what of beauty graced that lovely spot!
No luscious dream can glow with richer hues
Of lilacs waving high

Or

Their plumes upon the breeze;

pea with slender stem; or spicy pink That opes her vermiel near the humble bed Of heart-reviving mint,

And the wild origan;

Or roses cheek by cheek, bow'd laughing down
Amidst their scollop'd leafage, hiding there
The tiny sleeping buds

Scarce ting'd but with a blush.

One, more than all that bloomed in that retreat,
Its name although unknown, impressed itself
Upon my sorrowing heart.

I called it 'Sarah's love.'

For her cold hand, all motionless in death,

Calm held the blossoms.

Some were strewn to hide

The dark cloud gathered round

Her lovely faded eyes.

And some were mingled with her auburn braids
That clustered round her placid face; but sad
I turned, nor saw again

My Sister's beauteous form.

Oft have I wept at thoughts of her, and can
But love those sweets that rested on her breast,
That nameless flower was there;

And thou, sweet-briar, too,

Didst sigh thy odours where she rests her head.
O stranger, waking pensive thoughts, we meet
Once more, but ah, how chang'd,
Far from my home, and thine!

Since last we met, long years have slowly rolled;
Have brought--have left their troubles, but there is
A balm for human woe;

And more than human love

Hath hover'd, like some heavenly spirit near.
Mercy can give to saddest grief a joy,

And bid sweet-briars grow

Where thorns beset my path.

The Power that bids thee spring in foreign earth,
And gives thee strength to shed thy fragrance here,
Still clothing thee with
green,
Appoints to man his lot.